


L'École de Lafayette

by GwendolynGrace



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Adult Content, Adultery, Alexander can't say no, Bi-Curiosity, Bisexual Male Character, Canon Era, Daddy Issues, F/M, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, I will add more as they come up, Lams - Freeform, M/M, Medium Burn, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Praise Kink, Threesome - M/M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wartime Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-05-12 06:09:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 102,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5655319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwendolynGrace/pseuds/GwendolynGrace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Alexander Hamilton was assigned to help the newly arrived Marquis de Lafayette learn English, the last thing he expected was to fall in love....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lesson Number 1: A Misunderstanding

**Author's Note:**

> I will endeavor to at least make the historical / military facts sound vaguely correct but I am certain I will make mistakes. This is a work of historical fiction, but I am trying to fold what we know or can learn about the historical personages with the lens of modern sensibility. The interpretations of the characters owe a debt to their presentations in the Lin-Manuel Miranda musical, "Hamilton," and as such may be of interest to its fans. While I am primarily writing about the "dead white guys," I have endeavored not to overly describe the characters so that if one prefers to visualize the cast, it's possible to do so. 
> 
> This is a WIP and may eventually tie in to other works in series format. The events here are meant to tie in to and take place prior to the historical chapters of my previous story, "Reconstruction, etc." (or "R x 4"), which is on AO3 [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5344241/chapters/12339920), but it is not at all necessary to have read that to read this, and it can be taken as a standalone fic, if preferred.
> 
> There will be smut. Eventual Gay Trio Threesome, eventual Lams. Also it's likely we'll address some of their various Father issues related to their relationships with GWash (but no smut with him because I just can't. Not in this 'verse, anyway, maybe eventually in like an AU-verse). I can't promise happiness, either. 
> 
> (Also, I'm seeking a beta who is open to helping with either canon-era fics or more modern settings. if you're interested please lmk. You can also find me on tumblr as gwenlygrace.)
> 
> These boys. OMG, these BOYS. For one thing, they insist on swapping between English and French _constantly_ , like, every other word. It doesn't bother me, since I speak French, but in case you don't, and don't want to go to G-translate, I'll provide a glossary at the end of each chapter.

**August, 1777**

Alexander stumbled up the stairs, trying to feel his way. The single candle in his hand threw odd shadows that made finding the uneven treads quite a challenge. The fact that he was also about to pass out from fatigue probably didn't help, either.

His room--well, technically, the room four of them shared--was halfway down the corridor. He opened the door slowly to avoid allowing the hinges to creak. Everyone else was already asleep, and he had no wish to disturb them. They would be back on the march in a day or two; everyone needed as much rest as possible, while they had the benefit of a real roof.

He set down the candleholder and concentrated on the minimum amount of undress necessary to sleep. Boots, breeches, coat, neckcloth, sash, waistcoat, all found their way to the floor. In stockings and shirt, he snuffed the candle and then, in the dark, crawled into the nearest of the pallets strewn about the room.

"'Amilton?" a distinctly accented voice whispered next to him. " _Quelle heure est-il?_ "

"Three? Or thereabout," Alexander muttered. "Go back to sleep, my dear."

"So late?"

"Or so early. _Mordieu, je suis fatigué._ "

" _Pauvre 'Am,_ " Lafayette said softly.

" _Casse-toi,_ " Alexander teased back. "His Excellency promises I may sleep tomorrow until I wake on my own."

Lafayette reached out a hand to rub his shoulder lightly. " _Good. You exhaust yourself, and then you have no time for your friends._ "

It took Alexander a moment to realize that Lafayette had said this in French. " _En anglais, souviens, Gilbert? Toujours l'anglais._ Besides, we're fighting a war, not off on a holiday."

"Ah, pfft," Lafayette replied. " _L'anglais, c'est une langue barbare._ "

"You'll never improve if you don't speak it," Alexander pointed out.

"But it's just us," Lafayette said, his voice just this side of a whine.

" _N'importe rien,_ " Alexander sighed. " _Et maintenant, mon cher Marquis,_ let me sleep."

"Oh, of course," Lafayette cried. He was instantly contrite. He planted a light kiss on Alexander's forehead and settled back on the makeshift mattress.

The routine was familiar, if not particularly typical. Since Lafayette had arrived three weeks ago, either Laurens or Hamilton had been attached to him to assist in translation. In that time, the three had grown closer to one another than all the rest of the aides--but Lafayette had pointedly lavished attention on Hamilton, especially. Alexander had been his primary teacher, particularly since he could easily explain not only the English terms, but the General's plans, summarizing his correspondence, orders, and needs. It didn't take long for Alexander to suspect that perhaps Lafayette might wish to share more than language or strategy lessons….

He drifted to sleep, thinking of Lafayette's first arrival at the end of July. The camp had been buzzing with the news that a young, dashing, rich, and passionate Frenchman was arriving to assist the cause. "He'll be given the rank of Major-General," Washington explained, "but only after sufficient time to grasp the challenges we're up against."

"Does this mean we can expect more French aid, sir?" Alexander asked.

"One step at a time, my boy," the General said. "One step at a time. Let's see what this Marquis has to offer, first."

If the Great Man had been disappointed by the stripling noble, he hid it well. He calmly assigned Hamilton and Laurens to share responsibility for the youngest member of the family, improve the youngster's English, and work with him to implement any advice he might have on troop organization or discipline. The friendship that had sprung up among them was none of Washington's concern, but certainly he approved of the way it simplified the army's deployment. The three of them were like legs of a stool, providing strong support and seamless execution of his orders.

Lafayette also had a mischievous streak that often provided amusement of its own making. His maturity, easy smile, open affection for his fellows, and particularly, immediate and unshakeable devotion to Washington, effortlessly endeared him to all. Not to mention his absolute lack of concern when it came to applying monetary solutions to any problem that might arise. Hamilton had thought Laurens' wealth had been ample, when his other friend had first joined them. By comparison to the Marquis, Laurens was a pauper. Lafayette was forever scrounging the most sumptuous wine or best cut of meat, no one knew how, and the best part was that he shared his bounty with all the family. If he had not been so generous, so kind, so attentive and, not incidentally, so valorous, he might have made enemies of the others. Instead, he had fit into the brotherhood as if he had been with them from the start.

It was safe to say that Alexander loved the younger boy. But he was a bit worried that the Frenchman's definition of "love" included things that were decidedly improper.

~

His fears were confirmed a week later. They had left their relatively civilized quarters two days before, and had marched all of twenty miles to set up camp south of a tributary to the Delaware. It was a sunny day at the end of August, and Alexander had been inside the stifling tent they used for an office all morning. The others had left to seek lunch, and the sun was at its highest, beating down on the canvas until it reminded him of the hottest days he'd known on his home islands. In deference to the heat, he had removed his coat inside the tent, but as he hunched over his desk and papers, he could feel sweat trickling under his collar, down his back, through the ruffles at his sleeve cuffs. He took a sip of rum-laced water and pressed on.

Then the door flapped open and a blessed whiff of breeze blew in. Alexander reflexively protected his pages but closed his eyes to enjoy the momentary relief, until the pane of fabric fell shut again.

" _Alexandre, viens avec moi,_ " Lafayette said, appearing next to his writing table.

" _L'anglais,_ " Alexander muttered absently. " _Toujours_ \--wait. Come with you? Why? Where?"

"You shall see," Lafayette answered in careful English. He held out a hand to pull him away.

"I have reports to--" Alexander began.

" _Non_ , zis is--you must come. Come along!"

Mystified, Alexander set down his quill and allowed Lafayette to lead him outside. He did not even give him a chance to grab his coat or hat. 

They threaded through the rows of men and the few tents they had, into a stand of trees. They had camped near a large parcel of wilderness, just up the river from Burlington, on the Jersey side; the British camps were further north from the river than they, closer to Philadelphia. But on this little stretch of land, instead of rills, falls, and rapids, the current curved around narrow breaks, slow and lazy. The banks sloped gently down to rock and silt beaches; the water ran clear and cool and clean. Laurens waved from a large rock on which he perched, shoes and stockings off. He had a fishing pole in his hand, its line dipping under the surface.

"You're fishing," Alexander said, unimpressed. "So?"

"For ze General," Lafayette intoned. "Laurens say 'e will 'ave fresh troot for _le diner_."

"Trout."

"Zis is what I say." His sincere, clueless expression was utterly charming.

"Fine," Alexander said, giving up on the pronunciation lesson. "Good for Laurens. I don't see why I--"

His confused, annoyed comment was cut short when two sets of strong hands grabbed him and shoved him forward. Before he could fight back, Tilghman and McHenry picked him up bodily and tossed him into the deepest part of the stream. They scrambled into the water after him, splashing and laughing. He sputtered, feet easily touching bottom, and stood in the current, wiping his hair from his eyes. Lafayette, also laughing, was shedding his coat and boots. Barefoot like the others, he waded in.

"You needed to cool out," he said with a giggle. "You stink of sweat."

"You just stink," Alexander answered. "You need a bath." He tackled the young Marquis, pulling him under. He didn't notice quite when Laurens also joined them, but soon the five of them were all cavorting in the blessedly cool water. At some point, they climbed out of the river long enough to strip down further, laying out their clothes to dry in the warm sun.

Lafayette produced a hamper with cold tongue, some chicken, a rather crusty brown bread, and a bottle of porter. Hamilton could only speculate where he had obtained it. They all ate, and then Tilghman and McHenry dressed and made their excuses. When Alexander made to follow, Tilghman pressed a hand to his shoulder. 

"We'll attend to anything that needs immediate action," he promised. "You're to stay and relax for a while," he said, with a peculiar sort of eyebrow twitch toward Lafayette. 

Lafayette nodded. "We shall retourne shortly," he said.

"You arranged this just to get me to take a break," Alexander observed. "Did His Excellency know?"

"The General mentioned you 'ave been working 'ard for weeks. 'E suggested you might be 'eading for _un disastre_. I was only too 'appy to offer an...alternative."

"Well, as pleasant as an afternoon's swim is, there is a great deal to do back at camp," Alexander insisted. "We're not here to gambol about in a pastoral."

" _Non_. We are 'ere to fight. And you exhaust yourself," he said, as he had several nights ago.

"That doesn't matter," Alexander said.

"It matter to me."

Laurens had returned to the rock where he had strung his fishing line while they ate. Soon he had three or four fine-looking trout tied together. He reluctantly left the water and retrieved his clothes. "I'd better get these to the officers' cooktent," he said. "The Old Man will be pleased for the fresh fare, don't you think?"

They nodded their agreement. Alexander reached for his stockings and boots and put them on. "We really should get back, too," he said to Lafayette. Guilt at his truancy seeped in to make his voice more thready than usual.

" _Bon_ ," Lafayette said, watching Laurens reach the treeline. He dressed without hurrying. Before they left the clearing, he touched Alexander's sleeve. "Alexandre, you 'ave been...very kind, zese last weeks. I know you already 'ave too mush to do to look after me in ze bargaining."

"It's my pleasure, Gilbert," Alexander said, and meant it. "You're coming along splendidly, by the way."

"I'm glad," Lafayette said. Then, with a furtive glance around, he closed the distance and kissed Alexander.

This was not the typical, French _baiser_ to both cheeks. He kissed Alexander full on the mouth, as one would a pretty maid. Alexander suppressed a squeak of surprise. His hands froze at his sides, and it took a moment to force them up to grip Lafayette's arms, thinking to push the other away. But instead of pressing him back, for some reason, Alexander's hands closed on Lafayette's biceps and pulled him inward, closer. His mouth opened to deepen the kiss. He felt, quite suddenly, his erection brushing against the flap of his breeches, which were still pleasantly warm and slightly starched from their sunning on the grass.

He tried to tell Gilbert that they could not do what they were doing. Instead of coherent words, however, his voice came out in a sound that was part grunt, part moan. "Mmmuh…" he said eloquently.

"Shhh…" Lafayette answered, breaking the kiss only to press his body against Alexander's. " _Pas un mot._ " He canted his hips somehow and elicited another moan from Alexander. The swell of the Frenchman's breeches rubbed tantalizingly against Alexander's own tumescence.

" _Mon Dieu,_ " Alexander breathed.

" _Oui,_ " said Lafayette. " _Je te désir._ "

"Well--" Alexander began, but Lafayette stopped his mouth again, covering it with soft lips and a quick, darting motion of his tongue.

" _Don't fight yourself,_ " Lafayette whispered, back in French again. For once, Alexander made no attempt to remind him to use English; it was just as well that no one might be able to understand them. Then again, if anyone had been in a position to overhear--or more importantly, to _observe_ \--Lafayette's French would have been a wholly ineffectual barrier to understanding the situation. Particularly when Lafayette placed one hand between their groins and not too gently caressed Alexander's bulging cock.

"Ah--" Alexander gasped. All rational thought had fled. Finally he stepped back, pulling his hips and head out of contact. Lafayette allowed them to break apart. " _You're--married!_ " Alexander said, also in French, aware of how stupid it sounded to cite that objection first. 

Lafayette shrugged. " _And I love my dear wife, and our little girl. What of it? Is it so impossible to believe one could love others at the same time?_ " His eyes were smiling, but he kept his face carefully neutral. 

"I--don't know," Alexander admitted. 

Lafayette let out the chuckle he had been holding. He stepped forward again and touched Alexander tenderly on one cheek. " _I've no wish to marry you, Alexandre. Only to bed you._ " 

Alexander couldn't speak. His breath came in shallow pants, as he tried to make sense of what was happening. But then Lafayette closed in again and pressed his lips to Alexander's, and he tumbled, headlong, into the kiss. His hands came up once more to cup Lafayette's own hands, on either side of his head. Then they thrust forward into Lafayette's hair. He broke the kiss again to embrace the other man and whispered in his ear, "Is this--normal--for you?" 

Lafayette shrugged. Alexander could feel it against his chest, his shoulders. "Zis is 'ow we do in France," he said simply. 

"Well, it's _not_ how things are done here," Alexander answered, standing back. "Gil. You're--lucky it's me, and not someone who--" 

" _Ah, but I would not approach someone who would not respond in kind,_ " Lafayette assured him. 

Alexander crossed his arms. " _I see. And I strike you as the--type?_ " he asked venomously. " _Am I so womanly in your view? Who else thinks so?_ " 

" _Sois tranquil_ , Alex," Lafayette said, holding up an elegant hand. " _Non_ , zat is not what I intent at all. I only--" he sighed and started over. This time, he took his time and spoke exclusively in French, so as to make no mistakes in translation. " _I do not think it an obvious aspect, no. And I would be very surprised if anyone else had any notion that you might entertain anything but propriety. I only suspected it might be worth an attempt because--we spend so much time in each other's company and...I believed my attraction to you was matched by yours to me. Understand? And judging by your response, I would say I am not…entirely incorrect._ " He shrugged again. " _At Court in France, relations between men are viewed as...unconventional...but so long as no one is indiscreet, they are cosmopolitan about it. Nonetheless, I'm aware that men's sensibilities here are more….puritanical. If you think a liaison too risky, I completely understand. I shall say--and do--no more. But without risk, there can be no reward, is this not so? I felt it better to make my intentions known now, before I waste more time or before circumstances conspire and we miss any opportunity._ " 

Alexander said nothing, considering the Marquis' words. Then he asked: " _Do you declare yourself to me because you think I have no way to rebuff you? Because no one would believe if I accuse you of moral delinquency?_ " 

" _I declare myself to you, Alexandre, because for me, it is too late. I am already quite beguiled. But I trust that you are not a man who would end another's life just because he made a pass at you._ " His mouth quirked as if to say, "a successful one," but he held his smile in check. 

" _Who else knows? Did you ask Tench or Laurens to make sure we were alone?_ " 

" _I did, but they have no reason to suspect my intent. It is a private matter, so far as I am concerned, and no one else need know--nor indeed, no one else_ should _know if you value my life as I think you do._ " 

" _What of_ my _life, then? If I charge you with...assault, then all you need do is counter it by calling me the aggressor._ " 

" _I suppose. But there's a simple way to avoid that._ " 

" _Acquiesce?_ " he snorted. " _Let you blackmail me?_ " 

" _Non_ ," Lafayette replied, looking as if Alexander had boxed his ear. " _Say nothing to anyone. Tell me you are not interested and I desist._ " 

" _Just like that?_ " 

" _Just like that._ " Lafayette looked off at the horizon, where the sun was making its way closer to the treeline. " _We ought to return. I apologize, Alexandre, if I have wronged you._ " He gave a formal little bow and backed away, leaving Alexander standing by the river. After a few steps, he turned his back and headed into the trees. It was a long time before Alex followed him back to camp. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Alexander makes a decision.
> 
> French Translations:  
> L'École - School  
> Quelle heure est-il - what time is it  
> Mordieu, je suis fatigué - God, I'm tired  
> Pauvre - Poor  
> Casse-toi - You've listened to the soundtrack.  
> En anglais, souviens - In English, remember  
> Toujours l'anglais. - Always English.  
> L'anglais, c'est une langue barbare - English is a barbarous language  
> N'importe rien - Doesn't matter  
> Et maintenant - And now  
> baiser - kiss  
> Pas un mot - not a word  
> Je te désir - I want you  
> Sois tranquil - Calm down


	2. Lesson Number 2: A Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is what I get for not doing research before starting.... I have completely reversed the positions of the British and Continental armies at this point in the war. Oh, well! Maybe at some point I'll overhaul it, but in the meantime, consider it a sacrifice for the sake of Drama.

When he arrived at the officers' dining tent that evening, Alexander chose a place not beside Lafayette, but between McHenry and Gibbs. Mac lost no time apologizing for the earlier ambush. 

"Think nothing of it," Alexander told him. "We all need diversion now and then."

"Everything all right between you and the Marquis, then?" Gibbs asked. "No hard feelings?"

"No, it's fine," Alexander assured them dismissively, though eschewing his customary seat belied that fact, somewhat.

General Washington entered and they all stood to salute him. He led their grace, then took his seat and encouraged them to do likewise, and the meal began.

"I hear that our repast was provided by the inestimable Colonel Laurens," the General said. They all cheered their comrade, and the General led the toasting in his honor.

"And our dear Marquis deserves a mention for enticing the little lion to take a breather," Laurens offered next.

"You mean to take a bath!" McHenry jibed, waving away an imaginary odor and elbowing Alexander in the ribs with a laugh.

Alexander smiled and joined in the joke. "If we ever doubted our dear Marquis' ability to inspire devotion," he said, "we have ready proof of his success. He has already enlisted conspirators. Tilghman and McHenry." They raised their glasses. And so on it went. Alexander kept up the façade of sanguinity with half an ear. He listened absently while Gibbs assured him of the work that was completed during his afternoon off, and watched Lafayette with a furtive eye.

Was he really as attracted to the Marquis as the younger man had perceived?

Did that make him like the unfortunate convicts he had seen on St. Croix, and if so, would he eventually share their fate? He had no wish to return to the island even under triumphant, prosperous terms; to be transported there for buggery and gross indecency would be wholly horrifying. How did a man even entertain carnal love for another man? His previous flirtations with young ladies had been almost embarrassingly transparent. Would he betray himself if he allowed his affection for Lafayette to deepen or to cross into a more physical form?

He glanced down the rickety tables to where the young Frenchman laughed at something Laurens said to him. The two of them had more in common with each other than either had with Alexander. Of course, he kept the details to himself, but he knew that his disadvantages occasionally showed, try as he might to make them barely perceptible. And yet he was unquestionably a full member of their "trio" by invitation as well as by accident. He never felt like a mascot, a tagalong, or merely a tolerated presence. _Laurens_ , he thought. Was Laurens also in on Lafayette's shameful little secret? Did he also receive and bestow amorous affections with the Marquis? _No_ , Alex decided. Laurens was far too upstanding, too well-bred--too noble to be tempted by any such deviance. Although, he had been educated in Europe, Alex knew, and as for nobility--well, one could hardly malign Lafayette's own pedigree! 

They applauded the main course's arrival, but no sooner had it been served than Alexander's thoughts returned to his conundrum. 

Gilbert claimed he had approached Alexander only because he had interpreted Alexander's fraternal affection as something deeper. He had been quick to deny spotting any obvious outward quality that might have branded Alexander a sodomite, which was mollifying, since he was no such thing. Nor had Gilbert acted on an assumption that Alex had no standing with which to defend himself--he might suspect, but had no confirmation of Alexander's base poverty, nor his bastard-born, orphan status. So what had prompted the other's advance wasn't some conception that Alexander had no right to refuse. He didn't estimate Alexander an easy, helpless target, to be molested and manipulated, which was also somewhat comforting. It seemed that Lafayette had sincerely meant his proposition as one between equals. 

Still, whether or not his friend had chosen safely in regard to their relative bonafides, Alexander could not ignore that strategically, he had no way to combat the other if he did not want scandal. He could challenge the Marquis--but he really had no wish to do so. He would have to invent some other offense, since the real one was far too serious to use, and it was highly doubtful that anyone would believe a lesser charge could come between them. Besides, even if a duel was warranted, or the Marquis would understand the provocation he had provided for one, Alexander wasn't exactly offended. He glanced over again, and felt his loins tighten. No, he _wasn't_ offended at all. He was...intrigued? Titillated? Aroused? _Curious_ , he decided.

"Curiosity killed the cat," he muttered.

"Sorry?" Mac asked.

"Nothing," Alexander assured him quickly, blushing. Years of time alone in the shipping office and studying outdoors in the early morning or in his room late at night had given him the embarrassing habit of thinking aloud when he had not meant to speak. He shook off his reverie to concentrate on the meal.

After dinner, he returned to the tent where his papers waited. Gibbs and Tilghman had indeed completed most of what he had wanted to get to, but there was still much to be done, including the letter that Lafayette's excursion had interrupted. He sat down, picked up his quill, and quickly lost himself in the work. Writing consumed all his attention in ways that he welcomed, especially when he had weighty, uncomfortable matters on his mind. Late into the night, he scratched and scraped and was relieved to spare no other thoughts except those of war. Finally, he looked up and saw a clean desk before him, his letters neatly stacked and ready for the General's signature. Others had come and gone in the tent as well, he dimly noticed, but now he was alone again.

He placed the folder of correspondence on the Commander's table, then closed up shop and sought the little tent where the aides all slept. He didn't count the number of his comrades already slumbering, but he did pause long enough to make sure he was crawling into a bedroll that did not contain the Marquis.

His dreams were strange and unsettling. He dreamed of the prison in Christiansted, the catamites in their alleys near the docks, and the quarters of the city where, he knew, the sodomites and harlots lived. He dreamed of a brothel he had frequented in the Holy Ground in New York, only instead of the good-natured girl he had favored there, he entered her chamber to find a young, virile boy as slender and beautiful as Gilbert. He dreamed of holding and being held, suckling and being suckled. He dreamed of his brother, his father, Reverend Knox, Dr. Cooper, and General Washington each taking a turn with a flogging whip, while he stood, naked, and suffered under the lash in a town square.

He woke before dawn, soaking wet, sticky, stinking of his own semen and sweat. Quickly he rolled out of the blankets and took fresh clothes with him out of the tent. He returned to the river, stripped, and plunged into the cold water. There he took himself in hand and expelled the lingering effects of his erotic and disturbing phantasms.

It didn't take long for the cold to seep into his flesh. He came back to shore to dry himself, shivering, with his discarded nightshirt. He dressed quickly. He rinsed the shirt; he'd take it to the laundresses later. Rather than going back to sleep, he sought out the sentries and made sure all was well. Then he haunted the cooktent, where the cook had begun his preparations for breakfast, until he could cadge an apple, some cheese, and a little coffee. The dispatches had not yet arrived, so he pulled a book from his satchel and wrapped himself in his cloak to read about the Wealth of Nations in the pre-dawn light.

"Can't sleep?" a soft voice asked. It was Laurens. "I thought I saw Lafayette sneak off last night, too. Did something happen after I left you two this afternoon?"

"No," Alexander lied. He tried to send the universal signal, "I'm reading," but Laurens ignored it.

"Well, he seemed a little...off, at supper. You, too."

"Everything's fine." 

"Uh-huh," Laurens said, his South Carolinian roots creeping through the usually more polished accent. "Look, I love you both, you know that, right?"

"Well--yes," Alexander said, happy to hear it affirmed.

"So I'm not picking sides. Whatever's wrong, work it out."

"There's--nothing wrong, John."

"Ham, you may have sprung fully formed from Zeus, with no past, no family, no home, but I had brothers. I know what it looks like when they quarrel." He dropped to the grass beside Alexander. "I had two younger brothers, Harry and...Jemmy. I was in charge of them in London. One day when we were out in the city, Harry dared Jemmy to scale part of the old London wall. Jemmy refused, saying it was too high and the stones too slick. Harry wouldn't let it go." He gazed off into the rows of canvas. His voice took on a husky quality, Southern tones again overlaying the clipped elocution he had been taught abroad. "For three days, they bickered, and for a week after that, they wouldn't speak to each other. I tried to make them reconcile but they kept coming up with new reasons to press their points. Finally Jemmy decided that to...to prove himself and to make it up to Harry, he'd do it." He swallowed and his next words were filled with pain. "He fell and broke his damn skull."

"I'm sorry, Laurens," Alexander said sincerely.

"Don't apologize to me, Ham. Do what's needed to fix whatever's broken between you and Gil."

"Short of drowning myself, I assume," Alexander groused. "I'm sorry--that was crass."

"Yes," Laurens agreed without anger. "But yes, that's what I'm saying. Short of either of you harming yourselves. Or each other. Please, just--don't let whatever's wrong tear you--us all--apart."

"What if he's the one in need of correction?"

"Is he? Has he done something to offend you?" Laurens asked with such earnest concern that Alexander immediately regretted saying anything.

"Perhaps not--offended," he hedged. This was just the conversation he wanted to avoid. "But for the sake of argument, let's just say that he's wrong about something, and I'm blameless." 

He watched Laurens' face for any flicker of disbelief; he was ready to insist if necessary. It was a great consolation that Laurens took his words at face value and did not point out that "blameless" rarely described Alexander in any altercation.

"Was it deliberate, and not simply a misunderstanding?" Laurens pressed instead. "Remember, he's still quite new here."

Alexander phrased his answer carefully. "It was a misunderstanding, certainly, but--"

"Then for the sake of your friendship, forgive him and move on."

Alexander clamped down on the remainder of his explanation. He agreed with Laurens insofar as he had no wish to breach the bonds he had forged with either of his friends. Nor, in fact, did he really feel that Lafayette needed to make an apology beyond the one he gave earlier--though by the same token, he felt he had no reason to offer absolution. The real difficulty was whether he could believe Lafayette that if he rejected him, the man's advances would be withdrawn with no negative effect on their friendship.

He also wasn't sure that was what he wanted. He thought back to his dreams. If he was honest, some of them were more like memories, times he had stood at the border between one street and the next and _wondered_...then turned his steps back to safer roads. Maybe Lafayette had been right about him, perceiving a kindred defect where he had not previously wanted to admit there was one.

"If you will not do it for his sake, then will you for me?" Laurens asked. Apparently, he mistook Alexander's silence for obstinacy. 

"For you, my dear Laurens," Alexander said, looking into the other's eyes, "I would gladly do anything." He spoke the words with bravado, but as they passed his lips, he realized, he really meant them. There was nothing Laurens could ask of him he would not give. Unbidden, he wondered what he might have done had it been Laurens, and not Lafayette, who had propositioned him. 

_"Sickness is catching,"_ he thought, quoting the Bard, _"o, were favor so."_ One grope from Lafayette and he was already imagining grabbing Laurens and crushing him in his embrace.

It didn't help, he realized, that he also truly wished to kiss Lafayette again, as well.

~

It was a few days before he had the chance, but he took care to treat Lafayette wth all courtesy and fraternal respect until he could seize his moment. As it happened, the General sent the two of them together to scout Brandywine Creek. It was a trip that would take them away from camp for three to five days, depending on the enemy movement, and whether they could stop at the inns or had to camp on the road. Either way, it promised their first opportunity for privacy since the kiss.

They set out on two fine chargers around the middle of the day. Hamilton had spent most of the morning issuing last-minute directions to the others who would remain with their commander.

"Remember that the dispatches to Vermont and New Hampshire take three times as long to reach Clinton and Putnam, because of the British, so do them first. Then the dispatches for the Maryland and Virginia detachments. Save the Carolinas for last," he told Gibbs.

"Yes, Ham, we know."

"And remind Col. Harrison that the General prefers to read his own letters from other field commanders, but Baron DeKalb has no secretary yet, and often writes in German, so Harrison will have to translate."

"Yes, my dear lion, we are well aware."

"If he asks for them, his copies of the orders we issued last week are in the smaller of the brown satchels near my writing desk."

"All right."

"And--"

"Ham. We'll be all right. Just go."

"Well, who's going to get up at two in the morning to read--"

"Hammie. Stop." Tilghman put a hand to his sleeve. "Go." He dragged him out of the tent.

"Ready?" Lafayette asked from his saddle.

"He's ready," Tilghman said. He even made a stirrup with his hands to help Alexander mount.

"Sod off," said Alexander lightly, and hoisted himself onto his horse without assistance. 

They made good time downriver and stopped across from Chester. The shadows were growing gloomy with evening as they wearily dismounted. They could board at the inn there that night, and take the ferry to the north bank in the morning. They would then follow the river on the Pennsylvania side, cross again, and make their way back northeast, meeting the army on its way to Wilmington. 

After a simple supper, Alexander suggested a walk through the little town. 

" _D'accord,_ " Lafayette said with an indulgent smile.

As they walked, they practiced Lafayette's English. The young man spoke haltingly of his country and particularly Paris, and the Seine, and the comparative wilderness that lay in vast, untold acres across America. He wondered how many miles one could ride west before one could go no further, before ocean or mountain or some other obstacle made passage impossible.

"It's this country's vastness that keeps Britain invested in owning it, and us," Alexander agreed. "They know, as we do, that we've barely begun to reap this land's harvests."

They chatted about the indigenous natives, and Alexander surprised the Marquis by voicing his opinion that they were every bit as intelligent and educable as black slaves, and every bit as deserving of freedom and opportunity.

"You don' believe zey are _les sauvages_? What of 'Is Excellency's tales of ze frontier?"

"Any people will defend itself if invaded," Alexander reasoned. "And from their point of view, that's what the colonists were doing. But I think peace is achievable, if we can drive the British away to run this nation on our own terms."

They had reached the little quay where tomorrow they would take the ferry. They paused, looking out at the current under the moon. The water lapped at the pier, sounding very loud compared to their silence.

Lafayette was first to speak, switching back to French. " _Alexandre, I realize I must again beg your pardon. I was thinking only of myself, that day by the river. I put you in an impossible position, a compromising position--I see that. Please believe, I regret causing you distress. It will not happen again._ "

"Oh," Alexander said. " _Well, that's a pity._ " He grinned at Lafayette's stunned, shocked expression. " _I've been thinking, too, and.... I think you were right. About me. About--how I would respond if--if you were to...renew your invitation._ "

Lafayette turned him with one hand on his arm, pivoting at the same time so that they stood toe to toe. He was almost a head taller than Alexander, but when he spoke, Alexander could hear his comparative youth, in the form of his anxiety. " _You're not toying with me?_ "

He shook his head and said flatly, "No."

" _Are you certain about this?_ "

"No."

As he intended, they both chuckled and it relieved some of the intensity of the moment. He continued: " _I mean--I've never…. And I can't guarantee I'll-- I don't know what I'll feel or think or want. But...I'm willing to--to experiment. I mean, I want to...explore this. If you'll consent._" He bit his lip. " _And if you'll promise to desist if I lose the inclination._ "

"But of course," Lafayette said brightly. The pier was nearly deserted at this hour, but not entirely. A watchman with a lantern leaned against the fence nearby, and men wandered past every few minutes on their way home from the taverns. A horse-drawn cart walked along the cobblestone street and turned a corner, its driver sleepily holding the reins. In deference to the lack of privacy, Lafayette contented himself with a _baiser_ to each cheek, in the Frankish manner, and then said in a low voice that went straight to Alexander's gut, " _What are we waiting for? Race you back to the inn._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Alexander tries something new.
> 
>  
> 
> French Translations:  
> D'accord - OK  
> les sauvages - savages


	3. Lesson Number 3: A Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I am hammering my battle sequences into something like logic. Though still not historically accurate, at least I hope it will not be immediately obviously bullshit. Oh, history, I am sorry. (Not sorry.) The next update(s) may be delayed, since we are running out of the material I already have written, and I will be out of town this weekend.
> 
> Anyway... without further ado: Here is the smut you are all here for. :)

Alexander liked being with men--or at least, being with Lafayette--just as much as being with women, he discovered.

When they reached the tavern, Lafayette paid the innkeeper for a bottle of wine, a few candles, and an extra pillow. Candles in hand, he flagged Alexander with the bottle and pointed up the stairs. Alexander nodded and followed with their saddlebags.

Once in the small room they were sharing, Lafayette uncorked the bottle, took a swig, and offered it to Alexander, who had barred the door. Alexander drank gratefully, eagerly. Having agreed to indulge Gilbert--and he admitted, his own curious urges--he was now growing increasingly nervous about the prospect. He surmised that the feeling must be akin to a bride on her wedding night--anticipatory, but a little unsure of what was to come. He wasn't even certain if he was to be bride or groom in this unnatural coupling.

Lafayette, meanwhile, had lit two candles and set them into a bowl where they could drip tallow as they melted. He also retrieved a small vial of fine oil from his bag, which he mixed with the fatty drippings. He turned back the quilt, covers, and sheet, added the extra pillow, and then spread the quilt back onto the bed, wrong side facing up.

" _You've never done this before?_ " he verified in French.

Alexander just shook his head. He'd read of the Greeks and Romans, of course. He had even seen men in New York who found their way into his dreams, though not as viscerally as Lafayette had invaded his subconscious the night after they had kissed. But this was an entirely new experience. " _Only with women, that is,_ " he added suddenly, likewise in the safer language, not wanting to appear a complete neophyte. 

" _Then tonight, you will be the inserter and I the receiver. If you desire, another time, we may reverse our rôles._ " He crossed the room and cupped Alexander's chin. " _Have no fear, my little lion,_ " he purred. " _Just do what your body desires._ " He kissed Alexander's lips, languidly and deeply. " _And promise to tell me if you wish me to stop--or do more--at any time._ "

"All right," Alexander breathed, but he was already allowing his hands to wander inside Gilbert's coat. Instinct quickly took over, as Lafayette had said it would. Soon they were removing layers of clothing, unbuttoning the flies of each other's breeches and reaching for each other's erections.

The feel of another man's hand wrapped around his shaft was quite novel, Alexander noted. He squeezed the flesh in his own hand, using his thumb to nudge the tip as it poked forward from the foreskin, and was rewarded with Lafayette's low moan.

" _Encore,_ " the other said thickly. Alexander felt the sensation double as Lafayette twisted his wrist on his next stroke up Alexander's cock.

"Oh, _mon Dieu,_ " Alexander gasped through lips suddenly going dry.

Lafayette pulled him toward the bed. The Frenchman bent his knees to sink onto the ticking, relinquishing Alexander's penis only long enough to divest him of his breeches entirely, and coax him closer between Lafayette's open knees. Then the nobleman dipped his head down and took Alexander's length into his mouth.

The pleasure was so exquisite that Alexander wondered why anyone could consider _l'amour a la Greque_ to be sinful. Surely God would not have given it to men to experience bliss this profound, only to declare it a forbidden pastime. His next thought was to wonder how and with whom Lafayette had come to learn to use his tongue in just that way. For a brief second, Alexander felt a pang of stupid jealousy, which he batted away as irrational folly. It was pointless to envy or even care who Gilbert had known so intimately in the past. The important thing was that he was here, now, and had chosen Alexander to receive his carnal favors and ministrations.

Then Gilbert sucked down and Alexander found it impossible to think about anything for several minutes. The world narrowed to Lafayette's mouth, Lafayette's tongue, the powder in Lafayette's curls as he tangled his fingers through them, and the watery feeling in his knees when Lafayette made him climax.

"Sit 'ere," Lafayette said after sliding back on the bed. He patted the mattress in front of his legs. Alexander practically fell onto the spot, feeling weak with the force of his ejaculation. Lafayette took another swig of wine and again extended the bottle to Alexander. He took a drink, but as he handed the bottle back, he leaned forward on one arm to plant a kiss on Gilbert's lips. The faint tang of his seed undercut the alcoholic bite of the wine, and beneath that, he could taste the smoky flavor that he now associated with the Marquis.

"Now what?" he asked, like a child wanting to know the next rule in a game.

Lafayette chuckled. " _Tellement avide?_ Now you mus' rest, recouver. _Te détendre_." He opened his arm, allowing Alexander to lean into its circle. He reclined against the other's chest, while Lafayette slowly unwound their neckcloths, unbuttoned their waistcoats, and slipped his hands under Alexander's shirt to trace delicate patterns on his skin. His nails brushed one of Alexander's nipples.

The effect made him hard almost instantaneously. Gilbert laughed again, kindly, and dropped a kiss on Alexander's head, near his ear. "So soon? _Te déplaces, là_ ," he instructed, and somehow Alexander mustered the strength to comply. Lafayette scuttled out from behind him to pick up the bowl of tallow. He adjusted the second candle to allow the drippings to cool slightly, but stay liquid. Then he stripped off his own remaining clothes and returned to the bed with the oily mixture.

With careful and quiet guidance, Lafayette walked Alexander through the process. It was fairly obvious, and quite simple after they got going. Only once or twice did Gilbert have to tell him to slow or pull back with his fingers or his cock. The fatty tallow was lumpy and uncomfortable, but it was better than no lubricant at all. Gilbert apologized, saying he didn't want to squander all the oil he'd brought from France, since he wasn't sure where or how he could resupply it. Alexander added his own spit and that felt marginally better for both of them. 

Lafayette first positioned the three pillows under his back, to lift his hips above the level of Alexander's where he knelt facing him, so that they could look at one another. Gilbert slicked up Alexander's cock while Alexander worked his--friend? partner? lover--open with his fingers. Then, when they were ready, Gilbert flipped onto his forearms and knees, presenting a pink, puckered, perfect arse. Alexander stroked Lafayette's back and eased himself inside. The hole was tight, warm, and almost painfully pleasant to feel scraping along his shaft. As before, he barely had time to enjoy a few thrusts before he was shooting hot semen into Lafayette's anatomy. 

"We will--'ave to work on-- _la endurance_ ," Lafayette murmured as he pushed back onto Alexander's penis. " _But--my God, yes!--this is a promising start._ " He looked back over his shoulder. " _Are you all right?_ "

" _I want more,_ " Alexander said breathlessly. He began to pump his flaccid member in an effort to swell it again.

"Shh--slowly, please," Gilbert said with infinite patience and gentility.

"God, I'm sorry--have I hurt you?"

"No, but--it is not so comfortable like zis. Slow," he instructed, and to demonstrate, reached behind his own bottom to guide Alexander's hips in rhythm.

"Oh. Yes. I see…" Alexander agreed.

They rocked together, gradually increasing the pace and force as Alexander stiffened, until he came a third time. Exhausted, he withdrew. Lafayette quickly grabbed an old cloth and wiped him clean. Then he pressed the rag to himself and twisted to sit back against the headboard. His cock bobbed upward, wooden stiff.

"Do... shall I…?" Alexander stumbled on the words, but he reached forward to tentatively stroke Lafayette's shaft with one finger.

"If you wish," he said simply.

Alexander did wish.

Once, when he was just discovering the nighttime emissions that occasionally woke him from seductive dreams, Alexander had teased his own erection to climax and tasted the milky substance it produced. The salty, metallic tang of it was not precisely to his liking, but it had not been entirely disgusting, either. He bent forward to inspect Lafayette's cock and could smell the faint whiff of sweat and cum, almost like, but not quite the same as his own. He decided to use his hand instead. Recalling Gil's little twist of the wrist, he wrapped his fingers around and began to pump. As he did, he thought of his own self-satisfaction and tried to provide the same favor. He leaned forward and lapped at Gilbert's nipples and, on a whim, bit one gently. The other jerked and twitched and gripped Alexander's head to pull him closer. He sucked on the offered nub of flesh. Gilbert made a noise in his throat that drove Alexander on. He kissed his way up and down, feathering more kisses to his neck, chest, stomach, hip. Lafayette arched his back to meet Alexander's lips. 

After what Alexander hoped was not too long a time, he felt Gilbert's muscles tense and spasm. The younger man bucked against the mattress and moaned with ecstacy. Several white spurts jettisoned through Alexander's fingers, reminding him absurdly of the spout of a whale. Gilbert gave a satisfied, boneless sigh and lay still, eyes half-closed. A shudder passed over his body.

"All right?" Alexander asked, sitting back on his heels. Suddenly he was convinced he'd been cowardly, craven, not to use his mouth, and Gilbert would never want his attention again. He grabbed the same rag to wipe away the thick pools, wondering if he ought to lick them clean instead, not sure he was up to the task.

"Better zan zat," Gilbert told him, and his smile made Alexander believe him. Lafayette extended his hand, inviting Alexander to snuggle against him. With gratitude he hoped was not overeager, Alexander cuddled up, fitting against the slim waist and hips, one hand resting on the other's shoulder. They lay contented and dozed a few minutes before the chill took them. Then they cleaned themselves and the room a little, blew out the candles, and settled back under the covers for the night.

~

They were able to fuck three more times on their brief mission--more intimacy, Alexander realized, than they had any right to expect. It would likely be a feast that would have to last them a long time. On the road, they used Lafayette's mysterious oil, sparingly, and their spit, generously, to supplement their bodies' natural lubricants, and Lafayette hooked his legs over Alexander's shoulders rather than prop himself on fluffy pillows. Alexander also found reserves of the stamina Lafayette had remarked on him lacking, and so their second attempt at coupling went, he thought, much better. He decided that it had been the novelty, more than anything, that had caused him to lose his composure too quickly before. He liked this view, and he felt still less awkward when he realized Gilbert's prick was in easy reach. He stroked and teased it so that they might reach completion at more or less the same moment.

The third time they screwed, front-to-back, he learned how to reach around to rub and pull and squeeze Gilbert's cock in time with his own desperate thrusts. That was even better.

The fourth time, he decided it was only fair to switch places.

"Are you sure?" Gilbert asked when they had laid out their shared bedroll for the night. "It will not be comfortable on ze ground cold."

" _On dit_ 'cold ground.' Adjective before the noun. Anyway, I've been less comfortable. Yes, I'm sure. I want to."

"You don' 'ave to do zis. You need prove nussing to me."

"It's not about proving anything. I want to try it."

The Marquis shrugged one shoulder. "As you wish."

Alexander had thought nothing could compare to the bliss of seating his cock deep in Gilbert's arse. He had been wrong. Gilbert had expertly probed the spot which he had had to coach Alexander to find when their positions were reversed, and--oh, sweet Jesus, there was no feeling on earth like the pleasant ache and burn that Gilbert caused with the pressure--first of his fingers, then from a more sensitive and larger organ. 

The ground, before, during, and even after sex, was not as painful as riding the next day.

"How do you keep your seat?" he muttered, posting so that he could use one hand to adjust an extra saddle blanket.

"One grows accustomed," Lafayette answered with a sly smile. "You will 'ave to remove zat before we get back to ze camp," he pointed out.

"Like hell. If anyone asks, the horse threw me and my rump hurts from the landing."

"Oh, well, if it is not to your taste, you don' 'ave to--"

"I didn't say that. I said my ass is sore. That's not the same thing."

" _Vraiment,_ " Gilbert agreed. 

The day before they reached Wilmington, where they were supposed to cross the Delaware again, they met up with scouts from the forward brigade. They explained that the British had been spotted disembarking from boats near Iron Hill, and the General had hurriedly crossed back to the north bank to bring his men just east of Swarthmore. The battle, which they had marched through Philadelphia to join south of the river, was apparently going to take place north of it, instead. It was understood that Hamilton and Lafayette would need to move quickly over the next day to reach the main army, if they were going to get back in time to join the host.

They could even put some distance in before sundown, but the road ahead promised more Continental regiments along the way. It looked likely that they would be sleeping among other soldiers again for the foreseeable future. Hamilton suppressed disappointment that they were already running out of time. He fully expected them to share their bedroll again, but in the way that soldiers did, for warmth and nothing more. There would be too many others in too-close company to risk anything else. Tomorrow night, if they pushed their pace, they would reach the main army again, and return to whatever quarters were on offer, among six other men and the watchful eyes of General Washington.

Washington. With a sigh, Hamilton reflexively began composing the reports which he and Lafayette had been sent to gather. The news that the British had moved east, it seemed, accounted for the ease of movement on this side of the river, and the lack of any sentries on their route. Enemy or no, they had not neglected their duty in the slightest, and both now had detailed knowledge of the terrain. Whether or not the General needed those details of the southern territory was beside the point. Regardless, it was true that they had spent their nights in more profitable pursuits than noting their observations. 

So, when they gave their horses to grooms and sought out a late afternoon lunch, Hamilton immediately set out his portable writing desk and began to put together their summary. Lafayette came to sit next to him, and when Alexander asked a tactical question, the young Frenchman easily provided the answer. Before long, they had six pages of notes in Hamilton's careful hand. They decided to stay the night with the column, and get an early start in the morning instead of pressing on into dusk.

Another thought occurred to Alexander that evening, as they chewed boiled potatoes and thought longingly of the fresh trout they'd had, courtesy of Laurens' fishing line. He waited until they were huddled together that night, fully clothed, to ask his question.

"Laurens," he said quietly, hoping from the snores around them that the other men in the vicinity were all asleep.

" _Non: Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier,_ " Lafayette said. "Do you confuse us? Laurens, 'e is back in our snug little tent _avec les autres._ "

Alexander growled in amusement and pinched Gilbert's waist. The man twitched, but held any vocal reaction in check. "No, you ass. I meant, does Laurens…."

"Ah. Non. Laurens…. 'E is a bit like you, I think. More, in fact. _Trop… comment ce dire. Inhibée._ Sometimes I think, per'aps? _Mais_ zen...a curtain falls."

Alexander could not disagree. "So we must not let him know," he concluded sadly.

"I sink zat for ze bester," Lafayette said, sounding just as crestfallen. 

"Best," Alexander corrected.

"Best, zen. It will be 'ard, I know." He gave Alexander a reassuring hug within their cocoon. In French he said, " _Laurens, I don't think he would harm or betray us intentionally, but he might find it difficult to conceal his disgust._ "

" _You think he'd be disgusted?_ " Alexander answered in kind. " _I fear you're right. He's one of the most morally correct men I know._ "

Lafayette snorted. " _That is not why we would disgust him, Alexandre. He is one of us, I think. But he is too afraid to act on his desires. Poor man, he wars in himself._ "

" _I don't know if I can keep this from him,_ " Alexander said honestly.

Gilbert kissed his forehead. " _I know. But we must. And from them all._ "

" _Oh, yes, all the others. But...Laurens. That will be, as you say, hard._ "

" _Hard to hide from Laurens, and hard to hide from the General,_ " Lafayette said weightily.

" _Sacrebleu_ , don't remind me," Alexander said.

" _He is incomparable,_ " Lafayette continued, " _and it breaks my heart sometimes that he can never know._ "

Alexander skipped off the earnest admiration in Lafayette's tone. Almost everyone felt some sort of filial awe for General Washington, even him, but it was not a feeling Alexander cared to indulge. He was too aware of the man's human failings to worship him the way some of the others did. "Well, we should get some rest," he murmured instead.

"Yes. _Je t'adore,_ 'Am."

" _Je t'adore, Gil. Fais de beaux rêves._ "

" _L'anglais, toujours…?_ " the Frenchman teased.

"You want English? Shut the hell up and go to sleep."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Alexander faces the enemy (not necessarily the Redcoats)....
> 
> French Translations:  
> Encore - again  
> mon Dieu - my God  
> l'amour a la Greque - love like the Greeks'  
> Tellement avide - So eager  
> Te détendre - relax  
> Te déplaces - Sit up / move  
> On dit - one says  
> Vraiment - true  
> avec les autres - with the others  
> Trop… comment ce dire. Inhibée - Too....how you say. Inhibited.  
> Mais - But  
> Sacrebleu - (idiomatically) Christ  
> Je t'adore - I adore you (love you)  
> Fais de beaux rêves - Pleasant dreams


	4. Lesson Number 4: A Tumult

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week has been terrible. Sorry for the delay in updating; I like to be at least one chapter ahead of what I'm posting, but I broke that rule last time. The next update will be a while, too, since I am performing and presenting at Arisia (Boston) this weekend. (If you're going to be there, come find me! I'm in the Spotlight Concert on Friday, and I have a few panels: Walking Dead, Game of Thrones, and the Traditional Ballad Bingo.) Meanwhile, I'm trying gamely to read up so I don't have to re-write my battles four times due to writing with incomplete information....
> 
> As usual, translations for the French will be provided in context or at the end of the chapter.

They rode hard and found the army camped along a number of ravines on either side of Chadd's Ford. First to greet them were one of Lafayette's own men, Major Jean-Joseph Soubradère de Gimat, and Laurens. Laurens welcomed them with a wide smile and unabashed relief. "When we had to change plans suddenly, we had no way to tell you. We thought you might cross back in to Jersey and run smack into the Redcoats."

He brought them through to the stone house that the General had taken over as his quarters. "I offered to ride out and try to intercept you, but His Excellency said it was too risky. You know how he gets. 'Without any idea which trails they took, you could get just as lost as I fear they might be. The best course is to trust they will come by some sign of our movement.' Well. He did order that word be passed among regimental sergeants, to watch out for you, so that's something."

"Yes, we happened upon some of our own; that's how we knew to change direction," Hamilton told him. He found himself breathing shallowly and forced his lungs to calm down. Gimat and Lafayette were speaking in a flurry of French that even Laurens and Hamilton had difficulty following.

"'E say 'e thought we were dead," Lafayette told Alexander.

"I caught that much. What was the bit in the middle? Something about...a shame greater than tripping on the Queen? _Je ne suis pas familier avec cette métaphore_."

" _It's not a metaphor!_ " Gimat broke in, laughing. " _For the Marquis, it's a sad, low point in an otherwise horrid childhood._ "

" _Never will I be allowed to forget this story,_ " Lafayette growled, laughing, blushing and throttling Gimat in a brotherly embrace. " _I still say my shoes were too tight. And the floor was...slippery._ "

"You actually, literally tripped?" Laurens asked. 

" _Tombé_ ," Lafayette clarified. "And I will sank you all never to speak of it again. It was _mortifiant_."

"Not as mortifying as it would be if His Excellency finds out we've been back for an hour and haven't reported to him yet," Hamilton observed drily.

"Right. Ham, you're up on the left with Harrison, Meade, and McHenry; Marquis, you'll be in the room on the right."

They nodded and headed up the stairs to drop their things and freshen up for the General. Alexander hitched his eyebrows up at Lafayette as they disappeared into opposite doorways.

General Washington rarely showed any emotion in front of the men; he was not given to outbursts. Yet when he saw Hamilton and Lafayette approaching him where he was inspecting their stand of cannons, he broke into a full-throated laugh. 

"Thank God!" he said, and clapped Hamilton on the shoulder. Then he enveloped Lafayette in a _baiser_ \--as if he did not have time to consider the indignity of the gesture until he had completed it. Lafayette beamed back at him before remembering himself to salute. "I expect a report within an hour," Washington then told them, composure firmly fixed back in place.

"Of course, Sir. It's already on your desk."

The General acknowledged this with a nod. They fell in behind him as he went on with the inspections. Alexander provided translation from the General to the Marquis and back until they had discussed their findings informally, then as he consulted the younger officer on deployments. 

Luckily, there was far too much to do within the camp to give either Alexander or Lafayette a moment's pause to worry about their newfound intimacy showing. The rest of their day was thus quite occupied with preparations, inspections, and more courier rides than Hamilton could count. He rode up and down the lines of men, issuing clarifying orders on behalf of the General; discussing with the other Colonels the disposition of the regiments when they were to depart; conferring with the artillery commanders on the precise requisitions of powder and balls they might have per cannon; making a thousand adjustments and corrections to the companies when he saw the need. 

The sunset glowed rosy when finally Alexander left the saddle and proceeded to the area they had set aside for dining. He was grateful the day had been so busy; it was only now, as he approached the whole gang of officers, that he began to fret. Would they be able to tell anything had changed? He knew there was no telltale mark of Cain to offset him from the others, no more than Lafayette himself appeared to them as deviant. Yet, now that they were about to break bread, Alexander felt a pang of guilt. 

"Alexandre!" He heard the voice, the way Lafayette's accent softened the consonants in his name, and his breath quickened. He turned to let Lafayette catch up to him. "Don' worry; jus' act normal," the Marquis said, with a sharp rap to Alexander's chest. "No one can see."

Alexander began to ask how Lafayette had known, but just as quickly realized that the lad must have gone through a similar transition himself, after his first encounter. (And again, he wondered… who had ushered his friend in to the delectable sins they had committed?) "I'm more worried about this battle," he said, pointing at the tables outside in the cooling air, "than I am about the one in the morning."

" _Je sais_ ," Lafayette said, nodding. "It is no one's business but ours, _n'est-ce pas_?"

" _Oui_ ," Alexander agreed. It was no different, he told himself, than hiding his parentage, his age, his destitution--one more thing to add to the list of topics he did not discuss. Easy.

Surprisingly, it was. He wasn't sure why he had expected it to be different--after all, they were getting ready for, they hoped, the decisive battle of the war. No one was interested in any other topic. Laurens, for his part, seemed so overjoyed that Alexander and Lafayette had made their way back, and seemed on their usual best terms, that he didn't question them about their trip together. The sight of Laurens' relief left Alexander feeling guilty about the new secret--that alone almost killed any desire he had to indulge.

They stayed up far later than any of them should have done, on the night before a battle. In their cloaks or on little camp stools, they sat outside the cottage, watching the stars, chatting about the upcoming battleplan, listening to the General (at Lafayette's request) reluctantly tell stories of his French and Indian campaign. Washington had released extra rations of rum for the men; Alexander nursed his portion while he and the others took turns addressing any issues that arose from the additional drink. Shortly after midnight, he returned from speaking to a sergeant about a minor scuffle to find that more than half the lads had gone to bed. Lafayette was still sitting up with Washington, and McHenry and Harrison were singing quietly, but no one else remained.

Both Washington and Lafayette called him over. "I'm telling the Marquis about Braddock," the General said, "but we're faced with a language barrier. Could you translate…" he beckoned and Alexander leaned in. Washington whispered to him; Alexander snorted. 

"Yes, Sir. _Il était de selle mal_ " he supplied to Lafayette. "Who, sir?"

"Who? By God, _me_!"

"Ah," Lafayette said appreciatively. " _Donc_ \--Er… zen, 'ow did you... _comment at-il se débrouille_?" he asked Hamilton.

"You're asking how he managed? Coped?" Hamilton offered. Lafayette nodded enthusiastically.

"I strapped a pillow to the saddle," Washington said, following the side conversation. "Damndest thing I ever did." After a moment, he grew more contemplative. "I was that determined," he said softly.

In broken English and with Alexander's help at translation, Lafayette traded this story for one about a particularly frisky stallion at his riding school, whom all cadets were at one time or another convinced to ride, to their severe discomfort. 

Harrison and McHenry rose and bade their goodnights. The discussion turned more weighty, then, with Alexander relaying the General's conviction that if they could not end the war quickly, decisively, that they were in for a seige which might not be winnable.

" _Liberté_ is… _le droit de l'homme_ ," Lafayette said sincerely. " _C'est inevitable. Si…_ erm,  if we do not succeed tomorrow, zen...ze _bataille prochaine. Ou le prochaine._ " He gestured with his hands, holding one steady, slicing the other in little circles to make himself clear: the next battle, or the next. " _À la fin, nous serons victorieux._ "

"We don't have infinite resources. Or unlimited time," Washington observed sagely.

"We don't have to win," Alexander countered. "We just have to not lose."

"Easier said than done, my boy," Washington said indulgently. He got to his feet. "But we will pray for a victory, nonetheless. Time for bed."

"Yes, Sir," they both said, rising when he did. They saluted snappily and followed at a respectful distance. Though they were both the last awake, their minds were on the General, and the coming battle, and they had drunk their rum. They were in separate rooms. Nonetheless they moved toward one another in the hallway. Moments before they would have kissed, they froze--there was a creak on the step below. They pulled apart none too soon; a second later, Harrison's white wig came into view, followed by Harrison. He opened the door to their room and turned expectantly to Hamilton. Alexander widened his eyes at Lafayette, who smiled and nodded. " _Bonne nuit_ ," the Marquis said sanguinely, and disappeared through his own door. Hamilton reflected on the ironies of life--and the unfortunate incapacity of Harrison's bladder--as he went to sleep that night. 

~

"No, I believe I made myself very clear," Washington said, his voice rising. "After nearly having to leave you two behind to take your chances, you'll stay here and help direct from headquarters."

The room was empty of nearly all his other aides, generals, and officers, so the dressing-down was not quite as embarrassing as it might have been. Lafayette stood it graciously, a small smile playing on his lips. 

" _Mon General_ , I seek only permission to take a small detachment--"

"I understand your request perfectly well," Washington interrupted, "even without Hamilton translating for you. General Sullivan and Colonel Bland conducted a thorough examination of the terrain upriver, west of the city. They have assured me there is no other viable ford. The main forces of Howe's army will cross here." He tapped the table with one emphatic finger. "And I do not need two young pups to break off regiments when the men are already grumbling."

"They've been waiting all day, Sir, with no sign--"

"Howe's men have been spotted, you saw the reports yourself. It may be tonight; it might be in the morning, but they are coming."

"Begging the General's pardon, but we've also heard reports that there are battalions in and around Westover. If we might just ride--"

"That is still the wrong side of the creek, Colonel Hamilton," Washington snapped. "And how in God's name are we to resolve these conflicting reports? Howe is at Westover; he's on the Christina; he's at Iron Hill--if we had reliable intelligence we would not have lost New York." He slammed down a sheaf of papers, causing them to scatter across his desk.

"Yes, sir." Hamilton clamped his mouth shut. With the commander in this sort of mood, there was no use and potentially much harm to be done in arguing. His pulse raced and he bit the inside of his lip to keep silent while Washington continued to complain of his agents' inaccuracy.

"'Am, please will you go and find Major Gimat for me? I believe 'e questioned Colonel Bland while we were _présumées disparues_. 'E may 'ave better information _pour le General_."

Sensing that Lafayette had some other aim in mind--probably, to be left alone to charm his way into his requested regiment--Hamilton looked to his commander.

"Go on, dismissed," the other said absently.

Hamilton saluted and stalked out of the room. Only after crossing the threshold and walking around the back of the house, where he was sure the men would not see, did he allow himself a deep, resigned sigh. "Jesus, fuck, that _man_!" he muttered under his breath. It took him several minutes to regain his composure; always, Washington's snappish rages left Hamilton feeling culpable in ways he could not quite define--even when, as in this case, the Great Man had been shutting down someone else's request.

He had not yet found Gimat when Lafayette came strolling out of the house. "Ah! 'Amilton," he called. Reaching Alexander, Lafayette curled one arm easily around his shoulders. " _If we are to die today, I wish one more taste of you_ ," he whispered directly in Alexander's ear.

Alexander gripped hard around Lafayette's waist to stay upright. His knees had turned to water again. " _Moi aussi_ ," he said, feeling a compromising heat spread through his whole body. "Where?"

"I don' know," Lafayette muttered. " _Je cherchais_." They kept walking more or less in the direction of the horse lines, but Lafayette's hand on Alexander was all that kept him going.

" _Il y a trop des autres_ ," Alexander said.

" _That's one of the reasons I wanted him to send us to Sullivan_ ," Lafayette confessed, " _though in truth, I am worried about the enemy. We ought to have had a sign of them by now_."

Alexander looked around. Everywhere there were soldiers, drummer boys, runners, grooms, militia, officers--there was not a single spot along the river where they could be alone. " _We can't risk it_ ," he concluded sadly.

" _Non_ ," Lafayette agreed. "It is, 'ow you say, pity."

"A pity."

" _Non_ , more zan one, I sink."

Luckily for Alexander, he caught the other's wide grin before correcting him. "You made a joke," he said proudly.

"You see? I am...more witted? Witter?"

"Wittier," Alexander supplied.

"More wittier when I 'ave ze command of ze language."

"Command? We'll make a wager--which of us can claim a command first. Me, a military command; you, mastery over English."

"Ha. I am _assez maitre_ to remedy 'Is _Excellence_ 's, er...mode."

"Mood?"

" _Exact_."

"I hesitate to ask. What did you say to improve it?"

"Nussing. I listen."

Alexander wasn't certain how to respond to that revelation. "Does that mean you've already got a command?" he asked warily.

"Not yet."

For lack of anything better to do, they walked along the pathway down to the ravine bottom, nearer the creek bed. The men and cannons had been arrayed there in anticipation of an enemy that had yet to oblige them. While it had not necessarily been their intention to improve morale, their presence had just that effect. Every few paces, one or the other of them spoke encouragement to the soldiers, or offered a word of advice.

"How much action have you seen, again?" Alexander asked Lafayette playfully when they paced away from a cannon.

"Not as mush as I like," Lafayette said with irritating simplicity.

"These men will break and run the first time they face a British charge," Alexander warned him. "That's why His Excellency ordered extra rum last night." He pulled Lafayette to the side as three men in hunting shirts brought barrels of powder from the escarpment to the bank. "If the British don't show themselves soon, he'll have to order another extra ration to keep them in good spirits while we reconsider our strategy."

"'E will not be reconsiderate. Reconsider...ing?"

"Reconsidering," Hamilton confirmed. "And why not?"

'"E believes ze reports 'e receives _en ce qui concerne la rive_." Lafayette tapped his fingers against his thigh. "Are you as confident in General Sullivan's _assessment_?"

"Not particularly, no."

" _Non, pas moi, aussi_." Lafayette led Alexander back up the other side of the defile. "Zat is ze ozzer reason I 'ave asked to attend Sullivan."

"Ah. You said you improved his mood. Did you secure permission to ride?"

"Non. But, once ze _bataille_ begin…."

"Begins."

" _Allons_ ," Lafayette continued, ignoring the correction. "Let's go back up."

If marching, setting up camp, and the endless correspondence required to wage war was tedious, then waiting for a battle was the epitome of boredom. But shortly before dawn the next day, shots rang down the creek. A runner was sent scrambling up to the house to wake the commanding officers, while down on the banks, anxious echoes of "Which ford?" ran up and down the ranks of men. As the sun's first rays lit the cooling mist on the creek, someone with sharp eyes spotted a red coat.

The next thing the Continentals spied was the flash of a cannon. The first ball splashed into the water, but the second corrected for distance, and impacted against a row of militia. Blood sprayed their neighbors. The battle was joined.

Hamilton made his way quickly down the escarpment to assess the situation. It was barely light enough to see across the creek; he counted ten cannon by their fire and shouted blue murder at the artillerymen to time their shots for maximum effect. With the next barrage, he caught sight of the British battalion's colors. Rapidly calculating the number of men, Hamilton rushed back up the hill. He barely spared a thought to regret that he and Lafayette had not found time or space to couple again. It couldn't be helped. They would have to finish the battle, and its aftermath, before either could even contemplate a stolen moment.

When he crested the rise, Washington was coming out. The next several hours were spent relaying orders; watching for developments on the river; and wondering why the reports weren't adding up.

"Something's wrong," Hamilton said to Tilghman after they had grabbed a cold dinner. They were comparing notes from their spotters. "Mac, how many men was Howe supposed to have had at Oriskany? Fifteen thousand, or twenty?"

MacHenry puffed out his cheeks, as he always did when asked to remember figures. "Twenty thousand, yes."

"Armstrong says Pyle's Ford has about 3,000; Colonel Hazing reports they've engaged with 500 or so; Maxwell says his men have killed 300; General Greene estimates there are about 2,500 here…."

"Not enough," Tench agreed. "They're holding back reserves?"

"No, I don't think so," a new, deeper voice said between them. His Excellency had ghosted over while Hamilton was organizing the papers.

"Sir?"

"Lafayette," Washington called. 

" _Mon General_?" Alexander felt a jolt; he hadn't even noticed the Frenchman enter the room. Surely he ought to have known when the other was nearby?

"Take your regiment up to General Sullivan. See if he requires assistance."

" _Oui, Mon General_. I go at once." He saluted smartly, but his eyes raked over Alexander as he left, Gimat on his heels.

Alexander swallowed to wet his suddenly dry throat. "Sir--"

"Report to Generals Knox and Greene and tell them I wish to see them on the ridge in fifteen minutes," Washington ordered him, before he could ask to accompany Lafayette.

"Yes, Sir," Hamilton said. He hoped that if he appeared disappointed, everyone attributed it only to his habit of asking to lead vanguards whenever opportunities arose. Certainly, he still wanted the chance to command...but he was decidedly uneasy at the prospect of allowing Lafayette to join potentially heavy fighting when he was not there. _He's inexperienced_ , he thought as he made his way down to the creek. _But he's skilled and he'll have men with him. He'll be all right._

By the time he reached Knox and Greene, it was clear they had a disaster on their hands. The militia were deserting, as he predicted they would, and the British were making more headway against their troops than anyone had anticipated. A few minutes later, they received urgent word that Cornwallis and Howe were already across the creek. They had flanked Sullivan and were attacking from the north; Knyphausen and Stirling were fully joined and Stirling's men were dying or flying; and Stephen's division was under heavy fire as well.

The battle that Washington had been convinced would end the war had turned into a rout. They would be lucky to retreat and survive the day. Hamilton, Laurens and the other aides were consumed by the work of pulling back the army; only in passing could Hamilton offer up shapeless prayers to nameless gods for Lafayette: _Please_ , they went, _please let him be all right._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Laurens is the bearer of bad news....
> 
> True story: Lafayette tripped and fell flat on his face at court. Marie Antoinette laughed at him.  
> Also true story: The Battle of Brandywine was a godawful mess.
> 
> Sorry about the cliffhanger (of sorts), but--well, really I'm not that sorry.
> 
> French Translation:  
> Tombé - fell  
> Je sais - I know  
> n'est-ce pas? - right?  
> Il était de selle mal - He was saddle-sore  
> le droit de l'homme - the right of Man  
> À la fin, nous serons victorieux - In the end, we'll be victorious.  
> Bonne nuit - Good night  
> présumées disparues - presumed lost  
> Moi aussi - me, too  
> Je cherchais - I've been looking  
> Il y a trop des autres - There are too many others  
> assez maitre - master enough  
> en ce qui concerne la rive - concerning the river  
> Allons - (let's) go


	5. Lesson Number 5: A Vigil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical inaccuracy alerts! I'm attempting to get the right events in, but the details....those are falling victim to considerable artistic license. So for the record: This is almost certainly not the way any of this happened. Whatever. These _boys_. 
> 
> Here comes the General....

"Greene's holding, Sir; we've got another hour or so until it will be too dark for the British to follow," Laurens reported. He tried to keep his voice calm but secretly, he had been exhilarated by the urgency of the battle, if equally dismayed by the disastrous outcomes that he was now relaying.

"And the cannons?"

Laurens shook his head. "Only three left. Cornwallis has captured the others, sir."

"Damn. Keep them moving until dark, then post sentries to watch for General Greene's men."

"Yes, sir."

"Hamilton."

"Sir?" Hamilton stepped up smartly. He looked remarkably fresh, considering how ridiculously active Laurens knew he had been. Was he always so omnipresent in battles? Laurens wondered. His admiration for Hamilton's valor increased yet another notch.

Washington paused a moment before speaking, as if the words caught in his throat. "We can't prevent them from taking Philadelphia with three cannon."

"No, sir, we cannot." Laurens glanced at his friend. Hamilton had said this in a neutral tone, but his face before he answered told Laurens everything. Hamilton had already performed a hundred mental calculations in the time it had taken them to find the General to report. Washington, meanwhile paced the ground, thinking through his next move more slowly. Hamilton seemed about to launch into a discussion of strategy; Laurens took a chance and touched his arm. Hamilton flinched and jerked his gaze to Laurens, who shook his head.

"Let him tell you," Laurens whispered.

Hamilton caught his lips between his teeth, as if swallowing the recommendations he was about to make. Sure enough, a moment later, Washington turned to them.

"We must then ensure that they gain as little as possible by it. Hamilton, with me. Laurens, McHenry, we shall need an accounting of the injured; Gibbs, Tilghman, kindly conduct an assessment of our supply. Get it to Hamilton before midnight."

They all saluted and went off to their tasks. Laurens could hear Washington conferring with Hamilton as they walked toward the General's hastily-erected tent. 

He and Mac, meanwhile, made their way to the medical area. McHenry found the chief surgeon and began to inquire as to numbers of enlisted, militia, and officers, how many dead had been counted already, and whether any of them had been of significance. Laurens drifted through the rows of wounded, scanning for familiar faces, wishing there was more that could be done for them. As he reached the cluster where Mac was speaking with the surgeon, he saw a horse and rider bounding toward them. Against the waning light on the horizon, he could see that the rider was holding another figure across his saddle. The light caught on the two men's sabers and Laurens glimpsed the folded facings of the injured man's coat. It was not a Continental uniform; the cut was subtly different, and the facings were green. They could only be--

"That's Laf," he exclaimed. "It's Gimat and Lafayette."

Sure enough, the French aide brought his horse in and walked it carefully around the men stretched on the ground, calling for aid as he came.

" _He collapsed at the end of the battle,_ " Gimat said as he handed the Marquis over to Laurens and Mac. They brought him to a clear space, while the surgeon called for a lantern. " _We had retreated. He dismounted and_ \--" he made a sharp gesture to demonstrate Lafayette's fall, "his leg would not support him."

"The boot's full of blood," the surgeon said. "We'll have to cut the leather away. Take him inside." McHenry and an orderly helped carry the unconscious young man into the single tent. Laurens and Gimat watched while a boy brought the surgeon's kit, and another brought towels and water. The lantern threw odd, shapeless shadows against the tent walls.

"Was anyone else wounded?" Laurens asked Gimat.

" _Je ne sais pas_ ," Gimat shrugged. " _I didn't stay to look. The British have ceased their march for the night. They are, however, this side of the river._ "

"We should report to the General immediately."

~

General Washington had been in the throes of planning their next move when Laurens and Gimat had arrived to report the Marquis' injury and Sullivan's hard-pressed retreat. He'd been in deep discussion with Alex Hamilton about what powers of authority the latter would have--for what purpose, Laurens did not yet know. If asked, Laurens would have had difficulty saying which of the two of them--Washington or Hamilton--had reacted more violently to the news that Lafayette had been hurt. For while he had expected that Hamilton would be dismayed to hear it, he was somewhat shocked to see both men grow pale.

"How badly?" Washington had asked.

"Sir, he was hit in the calf, so...with any luck, not badly at all," Laurens had replied. He hoped it was true. "He's with the surgeon now; we didn't stay to--"

"Well, let us go and find out," Washington said, rising. He strode out of the tent with barely any acknowledgement to the men he left behind.

"Come on, John, he said we'll find out," Hamilton repeated, tugging Laurens' arm. If he hadn't been so consumed with concern, Laurens might have found his eagerness comical. Laurens wondered if he had vaulted the desk or merely acquired the power to pass through solid objects in his haste to move.

"Aren't you in the middle of--"

"It can wait," Hamilton said curtly. Laurens tried to remember if he had ever heard Hamilton say anything of the kind.

It scarcely took ten minutes to reach the General and another ten to traverse the camp again, which ought to have been enough time to patch up a simple wound. Lafayette might already have been moved out of the surgeons' care and into more comfortable hospital quarters. Laurens was prepared to be told just that when they entered.

But when he pulled up the flap to go in, the General was speaking with a doctor. The smell inside nearly knocked Laurens off his feet, more like a charnel house than a surgery. The grass underfoot squelched and sank into sodden footprints. Laurens looked again at the mud in the lantern's light. It wasn't simply the tread of many boots that had made the ground soft. The puddles were dark red with blood. Suppressing a cough, and resisting the temptation to cover his nose with a handkerchief, Laurens stepped smartly to Hamilton's side, a close but respectful distance from the General, and stood at attention.

"--fraid I really can't say yet, sir," the doctor was saying. "The bullet lodged in the meat of the calf, but we're having trouble removing it without damaging the tendons. There are also threads from his stocking in the wound, which we're trying to make sure are all recovered. Any mistake could mean infection."

"So he's still with the surgeon now?" Washington asked. His voice was tight with checked worry. 

Next to Laurens, Hamilton was vibrating. Laurens slid his eyes to his friend's face. Considering that Hamilton and Lafayette had had some sort of argument recently, Hamilton seemed overly worried compared to the doctor's report. Laurens wondered what the two might have said during their trip together--if, in fact, mending their breach had not been at least partially General Washngton's aim in sending them on the joint mission. Certainly, they had returned two days ago just as friendly as ever, so if that had been His Excellency's gambit, it had worked. Laurens was heartily relieved that his two best friends appeared to be back in each other's graces again. Yet something about Hamilton's tension struck Laurens as more acute than strictly necessary. The man behaved as if Laf were his brother in truth, and not just an acquaintance of a few weeks. 

Laurens was not certain what possessed him, but he felt the urge to find a way to comfort Hamilton. He remembered Jemmy's death with its trappings of guilt and remorse, and he would spare anyone else the same self-inflicted grief if he could, but especially Hamilton. Unable to speak, Laurens allowed his fingers to drift sideways until they could touch Hamilton's hand. A muscle worked in Ham's jaw, as if he forced himself to remain stoic. But his fingers closed around Laurens' and gripped them hard.

Hamilton's hand on his made Laurens' own palm start to sweat a bit. He squeezed back in what he hoped was reassurance, but he dropped the connection after. _Speaking of guilt_ , he thought, and pushed it away as immediately. Now was not the time to allow his own infirmities to make an unwelcome appearance. He focused back on the conversation.

"Yes," the doctor answered. "As I said, the bullet, luckily, did not shatter. If we can remove all the fibers, then that bodes well. On the other hand…." He spread his fingers. "Your Excellency knows as well as anyone that we can't always prevent infection or gangrene, even in the cleanest wound. And he's lost a great deal of blood, which weakens the body considerably."

"Yes," Washington said quietly. "I should like to observe."

For a moment, the doctor appeared to launch an objection. Laurens tried to catch the man's eye and give a brief warning headshake. It was always best to let the General have his way, especially when he was in this type of mood. It was rather like riding a spirited stallion that would occasionally buck if one did not give it as much rein as possible. Only in this case, the stallion could both throw his rider and trample him under hoof.

Luckily for the doctor, he either saw Laurens' head-bobble, or he perceived that the General was not to be refused. "Of course, Your Excellency. Let me go and see if the surgeon is going to be much longer."

Washington followed, and Hamilton launched after him immediately, so Laurens stuck with them both, which he could only assume was not how the doctor imagined his delay tactic was going to go. When they reached an area of the tent blocked by an interior curtain, the man tried to turn and ask for forbearance, but Washington pushed past him.

"Let me in," he demanded, and was admitted with no comment other than the doctor's helpless sigh.

Laurens tried to pull Hamilton back, at least, but when Hamilton glared at him, he dropped his outstretched hand. Feeling a perverse sort of responsibility for his friend, he trailed after. He shrugged apologetically at the doctor, then peered past Hamilton to look on the scene.

Lafayette lay on his back on a surgical table. His boot and stocking had been removed, but the cuff of his breeches had been cut open to offer better access to the wound. His skin was drawn, drained of color--no, rather, it was faintly grey. His hair was wet with sweat, plastered around his face and collar. His eyelids fluttered, and Laurens could not tell if he was mercifully unconscious, or attempting to block the pain.

One of the surgeon's assistants saw the three of them and came over. His first statement answered their unspoken query. "We've given him laudanum, Your Excellency, to ensure that he remains unconscious while we work; he should wake on his own in a few hours. Your Excellency is aware of our goal in this procedure?"

"Yes. I'm merely here to observe, not get in the way."

The surgeon's aide wisely did not argue. Washington took up a position to one side, where he could see, but true to his word, he would not impede. He seemed to see the aides for the first time. His eyes narrowed. "Colonel Hamilton. You have other things to do just now," he noted.

"Sir, I--"

"We're all concerned for the Marquis, Alexander. Go and get some rest; you're going to have very little for the next few days."

For a terrible moment, Laurens was sure that Alexander was going to argue with the General. He glanced at Lafayette once more and drew a shaky breath. Before he could say anything, though, Washington took a step in and spoke with tenderness.

"I'll stay with him myself, son. He'll be all right. But now, I need you to do as we discussed."

Hamilton locked eyes with the General, drew himself up to his full height, and saluted smartly. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." He then went out. Laurens faltered for a moment, unsure whether to follow Hamilton to ask what his mission was, or stay with the General, but in the end, duty won out. He stayed with his commander. For the next few interminable minutes, the Continental Army's leader stood at parade rest, his hands clasped low behind him, and neither swayed nor spoke.

At last, the surgeon straightened and nodded. He turned to a basin to bathe his hands while orderlies lifted Lafayette's stretcher and carried him out. Washington followed. Laurens again held back to consult the aide.

"Well?"

"He thinks he removed everything. His stockings were shredding too badly to be certain. Now we must keep the wound clean, and pray."

As Laurens left the tent and scanned for his tall commander, he saw them walking toward another newly erected hospital tent. A man walked by Washington's side, obviously briefing him on the procedure's success. Washington nodded and said something that sent a porter scurrying, returning soon with a camp stool. They went into the tent and Washington perched on the stool after setting it by Lafayette's bedside. Laurens overheard him giving orders to the staff regarding Lafayette's care and comfort. Then the General spied Laurens and nodded him over.

"Sir?"

"Gilbert is expected to recover," the Great Man said, looking far from great at present. "I shall stay here with him for a while. When Tilghman and Gibbs return with their reports, they can give them directly to Hamilton; he'll need them. Make sure he's had some sleep; he'll be leaving camp before dawn. If you can, find Captain Monroe and ask him to come see me at first light. We'll need to move again as soon as possible; I wish him to remove the Marquis somewhere safer to aid his recovery."

"Very good, sir."

With that, Washington turned his full attention to the injured, unconscious Frenchman. He gently eased one of his huge hands between Lafayette's limp, grey fingers and his thigh, and closed his other palm over the top of Lafayette's bloodless wrist. 

"Come on, son," Washington murmured. "Come on."

Laurens took his leave. When he exited the medical tent, he passed out of view of the wounded and ducked behind a tree. Only then did he allow himself to sink to his knees. He retched and sent up a prayer of thanks that Lafayette's wound had not been worse. Then he got to his feet and went to find Hamilton.

~

Hamilton was hastily drafting orders in the General's tent while also giving instruction to a young corporal. "Tell Captain Lee to pick eight good riders. Tell him we're leaving as soon as--" he broke off speaking when he saw Laurens enter. "Laurens. Is he--"

"They think he'll be all right. His Excellency's with him now."

"He's awake?"

"No, not yet."

Some sort of confusion played over Hamilton's face, but he visibly pushed it aside. "Will His Excellency be returning tonight?" he asked instead.

"I'm not sure." Briefly he outlined his orders. 

"And Gilbert?" Hamilton wondered. "If it's bad enough that the General prefers to stay--"

"It's not as bad as that, truly," Laurens assured him. "He told the doctors to treat Lafayette as his own son. Honestly I don't think it's too far off from how the General feels. I've never seen any two take to each other so quickly--unless, of course, it be the three of us." He dropped the last statement carefully, casually, and waited to see where Hamilton would take it. For a moment, he felt an irrational pang of jealousy, for everything he had seen in the last thirty-six hours or so made him wonder if, perhaps, Hamilton and Lafayette had achieved a closeness that would eventually shut him out of their trio. He was loath to give it a name, even to venture a guess as to what might have deepened their bond, but for reasons he could not quite formulate, he felt their connection to each other, exhibited in particular by Hamilton's worry, and perceived that it was no longer exactly the same as it had been among all. 

If Hamilton felt as great an affection for the Marquis as his concern made it appear, Laurens decided, he could not find any fault in that. Lafayette was undoubtedly an endearing character, even if long ago, Laurens' father had warned him about men who wore earrings. For all his youth, the French noble was intelligent, witty, generous and above all, wholly dedicated to the cause. It was nearly impossible not to feel a tenderness and care for the lad.

Conversely, if the Marquis found in Hamilton a bosom friend, that was also entirely unsurprising. Hamilton talked little of himself, but he had astonishing intelligence, a sharp sense of humor, a fierce protectiveness of his friends, and almost single-minded determination to do whatever was required to wage the war. Moreover, he was graceful, authoritative, kind, a solid marksman and an intuitive commander. He surely had a temper which he kept carefully in check, but then, so did Laurens, and Hamilton never faulted him for his, so it seemed churlish to blame the other for venting his frustrations in their private conferences. 

In either of the two, Laurens felt he had found reflections of his own soul. So, perhaps that was why he found it irksome to think that the two of them had circumvented him somehow in growing closer while he had been absent from them. 

"War makes fast friends," Hamilton muttered. Laurens was disappointed; the comment hardly provided an opening for him to press for more information, at least, not without sounding peevish. He could only agree. 

There was another reason Laurens hated to think Hamilton and Lafayette were pulling ahead in their friendship, and leaving him to follow in their race. He realized it like a slap, when Hamilton spoke. Hamilton enjoyed a reputation among the lads for his mysterious past. He was extraordinarily tight-lipped about his upbringing, childhood, family--or indeed, any aspect or detail of his personal life. Laurens tried not to pry, and tried not to tell too many of his own anecdotes for fear that the other would feel pressured to reciprocate. It pained Laurens as much as, he was sure, Lafayette's bullet wound, to imagine that Hamilton might have trusted Lafayette with his secrets, but here, when Laurens was trying to give him an opening, he was rebuffed.

Then, another thought occurred, a much less pleasant one. _Perhaps Hamilton sees you for what you are, and knows that he ought to keep you at a distance._ He wore no earring, but he knew his father had been justified to warn him away from the company of free and easy types in London or elsewhere. It would have been too easy to succumb to their habits, he suspected. 

Not that he believed an earring by itself was proof of degenerate behavior. Sometimes his father could be terribly old-fashioned. Many continental youths, he knew, had added the accessory; it meant nothing. His own nagging feelings, on the other hand, required a firm self-control to expiate.

Here was an opportunity to prove to himself that he could adhere to propriety, whether or not Hamilton found him questionable. He decided that, personal hurt aside, he would be as supportive and helpful a friend as any man could hope to have. With luck, he might convince Hamilton that he could be as worthy of trust as the young man currently lying on a hospital cot with no less than the leader of the Continental Army fretting over him.

Hamilton, meanwhile, had looked over at the corporal, still waiting to be sent on his errand. "Tell Lee to gather his men and meet me at the northeast picket line at four."

The lad fled. Hamilton signed the paper he'd been writing and set it aside. He sat. "Lafayette. In the surgeons' tent, he looked--"

"I know," Laurens said quickly, eager to fulfill his new resolution. "Gimat said he must have been hit when he was rallying the line to keep them in check while Sullivan's men retreated. Laf claimed he was fine, but later, when they dismounted to negotiate a steep hill, his leg collapsed under him. Gimat caught him or it could have been much, much worse."

"I should have been with him," Hamilton said. 

"I doubt that would have made much difference, Ham," Laurens told him with sympathy. 

His friend lifted his eyes from his papers and Laurens nearly reeled from the pain in that gaze. He realized with a pang that whatever Hamilton's mysterious past, whatever numerous pains and griefs had brought him to fight in their mutual cause, nothing Laurens could say would assuage the guilt Hamilton carried.

Laurens was no stranger to guilt.

"His Excellency's sending you to Philadelphia, isn't he?" he asked instead.

Hamilton shrugged. "For supplies, and to warn them, yes. Burning flour mills on the way."

Laurens' brow shot upward. He swallowed the blasphemy that threatened to escape his lips. "Be careful, dear boy."

"You, too. Howe's going to pursue, you know. We'll have another battle before the week's out."

"The doctors said Laf might wake before too long. If you can, stop and see him before you go." 

"Yes, of course I will," Hamilton said, sounding vexed that Laurens might think otherwise.

"I know you care about him, Ham; so do I. But this is a war, after all." He held out his hand. "See you on the other side?"

Hamilton stared at Laurens' hand, as if it were a viper about to strike. But when he clasped it, his grip was firm and warm. "See you on the other side."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Alexander undertakes a mission....
> 
> French Translation  
> Je ne sais pas - I don't know


	6. Lesson Number 6: A Departure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More historical inaccuracy! But with some real details where I can squeeze them in. Thank-you to kikibug13 because you solved a problem I was having--which means I can promise that there will be more smut...soonish. And there will be more complications, naturally. Because these _boys_ are all about their complexity. Well, and each other.

After Laurens excused himself to continue his round of the camp, collecting reports on the wounded and killed, Alexander drafted a few more quick pages. He would need the General's signature on them before he left. He also had no intention of leaving without seeing Lafayette--had Laurens really believed otherwise? In some measure, he felt grateful that his affection for the Frenchman was not writ so large on him that Laurens could guess at its depth. But in truth, he was leery of combining the two goals, or more specifically, of visiting Lafayette if the General was still holding vigil over the young man. Would he betray himself? How could he stand to attend the bedside without sweeping Lafayette into an amorous embrace? 

He pinched his nose. "You're going to have to resist anyway, you dolt," he told himself. It was too true. Even if Washington were not there, surely, a hospital bed was no place for the sort of reunion he wished for, not when they would be surrounded by others. There was no safe way to express all he would have wanted to say or do in that setting. Discretion was both appropriate and necessary. 

But, he reasoned, he could at least bestow a chaste kiss--if he thought he could trust himself to leave it at that. He would have to be content with that much.

Tilghman and Gibbs arrived, first one, then the other, with counts of the paltry amounts of powder, shot, and other supplies the army had managed to retain in its scrambling dash out of British clutches. Alexander skimmed the inventories and made adjustments to his own shopping lists. He couldn't be certain how much time he'd have between burning the mills and heading to Philadelphia and he wanted to be prepared to move straight from one task to the next. The people of the city would doubtless cry that they had been robbed by friendly forces, but what alternative was there? Allow the British into the city while it was still fully stocked? That would add insult to the injury the Army now suffered.

He sent Gibbs back with additional questions. While he waited for the answers, he gathered up his own belongings into a saddlebag. It took a depressingly short time to pack. He hesitated over _The Wealth of Nations_ \--surely he would have no time for reading for who knew how long to come--but if he did not bring it, there was no telling how it might go astray. In the end, he decided to leave it behind in Laurens' safekeeping, along with the much less portable _Universal Dictionary of Trade and Commerce_. He tucked into the bag his packet of blank parchment and a travel writing kit, and smoothed a spare shirt over the lot to cushion the inkwells. Gibbs returned with the answers, and Hamilton had no more excuse to delay. He needed the General's signature; he needed to see Lafayette; and then he needed to meet Captain Lee and ride for the first of the flour mills to blow it up.

Washington was still at Lafayette's side, but they were not alone. His brigadiers had found him; General Greene was speaking with him when Alexander arrived.

"Ah, there you are," Washington said approvingly. "Have you a good accounting of what we need?"

"Yes, sir. Too much for Philadelphia alone to provide, I fear," he said. They fell at once to numbers: horses, hams, cartridges, partridges, blankets, beer barrels, wagon wheels, wheels of cheese, clothes, and more. Everything they might conceivably need--and everything they could not afford to allow the British to capture.

"You'll need authority to requisition from the wealthiest families," Washington pointed out.

"Yes, sir. I've drafted a commission, if you…?"

"Let me see." Washington accepted the paper that Alexander had produced. He read it closely while Greene exchanged a few words with Alexander about stretching their meager supplies until he could rejoin them with his plunder.

"This is good," Washington pronounced. He handed it back. "I'll sign it before you leave."

"Yes, sir."

Then Greene said, "If we're to march at dawn, General, I ought to get the officers moving."

"Indeed, Nathaniel." They clasped hands. "Thank you."

"This was a kick in the teeth, George," General Greene said, "but if we can keep moving, and if Alexander here can replenish our ammunition, we can live to fight another day."

"I have every confidence," Washington agreed, smiling at Alexander with closed lips. 

Greene shook Alexander's hand, as well. "Good luck, young man."

"Thank you, General. And to you."

As the older, jocund General made his way out, Washington nodded. "I do have every confidence, you know."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." Hamilton bit the inside of his cheek. Washington was trusting him with a vital, crucial mission, and while he was proud of the older man's expressed faith, Washington's praise always had a way of making him want to squirm in discomfort. He had no wish to appear ungrateful, but it did occur to him even now that he was still being used as a glorified clerk and accountant. It was his skill as a shopkeep, not his military acumen, that had earned him this abbreviated command.

Washington looked down at the sleeping Lafayette. "He woke up an hour ago," he said softly, "but only for a few minutes. Don't take too long waiting for him to rouse."

"No, sir."

"There's a Quaker meeting house not too far from here, in Birmingham; we'll take the wounded there for a hospital. Monroe can supervise the transfer." He touched one hand to Hamilton's shoulder in a brief, awkward gesture soon aborted. "I know you feel responsible for Gilbert, but he's earned his rank and he's not a green boy."

"Understood, sir," Hamilton replied. He breathed a bit easier; the motives Washington ascribed to him were not entirely unjustified, but they were also _safe_ ones. The General had no idea of the truth, thank God. It was odd to hear Lafayette's given name in Washington's voice, but it spoke volumes about how dearly he had come to care. Doubtless, his own worries overrode any suspicions he might have had, otherwise.

Alexander tried not to hate himself for being grateful about that.

"Give me that commission again; I'll sign it back at my tent. Stop and get it before you leave."

"Very good, sir." He handed over the page and saluted. Washington went first to a doctor, presumably to remind them to fetch him if there was any change in Lafayette, and strode away. 

Alexander sat lightly on the stool that Washington had vacated. He tenderly smoothed some of Lafayette's curls away from his forehead. "Fool," he said, and whether he was talking to himself or to the Marquis, he didn't know. 

He felt torn; he didn't wish for Lafayette to wake up if he needed the rest; on the other hand, he hated to leave without having the chance to look into those eyes first. As a consolation, he bent and put a soft kiss to the other's forehead, as Lafayette had done to him countless times in their bedrolls at night.

The contact made the younger man stir. Alexander grasped his hand quickly. "Gilbert?" he whispered. " _Es-tu réveillé?_ "

Lafayette made a noise--not quite a moan, but not a whine--and clutched Alexander's hand. " _Grand-père_?" he murmured. Then: " _Mon General? Je dois le feu dans ma jambe, pardon…._ "

" _C'est Alexandre, mon cheri._ Your leg's not on fire-- _tu te débrouilles bien_ \--shh… _tu a tiré dessus._ " He leaned forward to soothe the other. " _Just rest easy. Do you need a drink of water?_ "

" _Alexandre_...." Lafayette repeated weakly. " _Toujours l'anglais._." A faint smile graced his lips. " _Un bois de l'eau…non. Du vin, peut-être_...."

Alexander chuckled once in relief. "First off, that's French, not English. And second, no wine. They gave you laudanum for the pain."

"Ah. Pain. _Oui_." His eyelids fluttered open, and he regarded Alexander, but the lids remained heavy, the eyes dull with fatigue. "Did you say shut? Erm, shot? _Dans ma jambe, non?_ "

"Yes, shot in your leg. That's why it feels like it's on fire. You're in hospital, in the field. Do you remember anything? Do you need anything?" Alexander slipped off the stool onto his knees so that he could lean closer. He held Lafayette's hand in both of his. "Don't try to get up."

"I 'adn't planned to," Lafayette said wryly. "Why must it 'urt so mush?"

"You probably need more laudanum." Alexander let go one hand to signal one of the orderlies.

" _Ah, non--s'ils me donnent, je vais me rendormir_. Don' go," Lafayette pleaded.

"I have to go, but not right away." Alexander glanced around and decided to chance another kiss, this one, he hoped, a suitably fraternal one to Lafayette's hand. "Lie still, my dear. Would you care for a whiskey? I might be able to get some from Harrison before I leave."

"Leave?"

"I've won our bet," he said, trying to sound upbeat. "I'm in command--sort of." He very briefly explained his mission.

"Am I going to lose my leg?" Lafayette asked.

"No, no, not at all," Alexander assured him. "They have every reason to think you will be perfectly well again. _Sois confiant, Gilbert_. You only need rest."

"I sink--sought--was 'Is Excellency 'ere?" He lolled his head around on the cot, trying to look around without lifting it.

"Yes, he was!" Alexander told him proudly. "He sat with you for over three hours."

" _Trois…_ " Lafayette's eyes widened, but the effort deflated him again. " _Je suis tellement fatigué, Alexandre_...."

" _Je sais, je sais, c'est bien. Reste._ They'll look after you. I only wanted to make sure for myself before I go."

Lafayette nodded. " _Je ne me sentais jamais la balle..._ I don' wish to alarm ze General…."

"He wasn't alarmed; he was worried. He told them to take care of you as if you were his son--one can't ask for better than that, can one?" Alexander smiled widely. "All you have to do now is lie here and get better. _N'est-ce pas_?" He didn't mention that the British were on their heels and that "here" was about to change shortly. The journey would be painful; he hoped James Monroe would have more sense than usual and order that the wounded receive laudanum for the trip.

"I'll be back in camp in a few days." He leaned over to whisper in Lafayette's ear. " _And as soon as you're able to stand it, I'm gonna fuck you senseless. So get better quick, because I don't know how much longer I can keep my hands off you._ "

His audacious statement was rewarded by Lafayette's grip tightening on his. The other nodded vigorously. "I like zat very mush," he said. "Soon, when you _retourne_?"

"Soon," Alexander agreed. "When I return. But now, I really have to go. Take care, my dear Marquis."

" _Bonchance, Alexandre. Adieu_."

" _Dieu te bénisse, mon cher._ " Contenting himself with too-brief kisses on the cheeks, Alexander dragged himself from his lover's hospital bedside. 

~

Progress up the river was agonizingly slow. It took all day just to reach the first mill; the sun was setting as they rode up. Lee set sentries; Hamilton broke down the door, and as soon as they had verified no one was inside, fired the mill. He leapt back into the saddle and they barely got 500 yards before it exploded. Alexander could feel the heat of the blast as they rode onward, but they only managed another hour's travel before they had to stop for the night. Then rain started around nine o'clock and did not stop.

The second mill was more difficult; the roads were growing steadily muddier, for one thing, but for another, workmen were hard at it when he and Lee got there, and they had to turn them out before setting the fire. 

"Do you wish to deprive us of our living?" the miller demanded.

"No; but I do wish to deprive the British of it," Alexander told him. While the fellow was still trying to work that out, Alexander had his men pull the unfortunate miller out of the building. It went up less than two minutes later.

At the third mill, they acquired a boat, a basket of potatoes, and a new recruit. The latter was about 17 but he seized the chance to join, reasoning (in a rush) with his father that in the absence of the mill, he had little else to do. Alexander didn't think the father was convinced in the slightest, but he had no time to get involved in a family dispute. 

"If you wish to come along you'll have to bring your own horse, and keep up. We can't brook any delays."

"I'll keep up! Ain't got a horse, though. But I can take the boat and keep watch on the creekside."

Alexander could not argue the sensibility of the plan. Perhaps he saw something of Lafayette in the boy's youthful face. At any rate, the boat was large enough for their powder and the horses. It would be more efficient by far to take the little scow to the next mill. He accepted the boy's assistance and had the men load up onto the flat-bottomed vessel. If the powder went overboard, it could hardly get wetter. The rain had been by turns torrential and soft, but for three days straight, it had been falling.

By the time they reached the sixth mill, near Mount Joy, it had been five days since Brandywine. They had acquired a second boat. The rain had finally let up that morning, but the river was still running high and travel had been more difficult against the current. The sun was slipping down to the horizon as they crossed under the bridge and put in at the mill. The work day was ending, at least, so they were able to send the civilians on their way more easily. Hamilton had just lit his cartridge papers and tossed them into the mill when he heard the crack of a musket. A moment later, one of Lee's men shouted, "REDCOATS!"

"Which side?" Alexander called back. He just about answered his own question, though, as he saw the smoke, dust, and glint of sun on bayonets that signaled the attack of the British cavalry company. "Mount and ride, if you can!" he ordered, leaping onto his horse.

"We'll give you time!" Lee told him, wheeling his horse around. The six men with him took off to the east, back toward the bridge over Valley Creek where they had come; Hamilton saw half the cavalry give chase. It wasn't enough; the rest maintained their trajectory right toward him.

"Scuttle the other boat!" Alexander ordered, indicating the second vessel moored behind the mill, which Lee had been using for conveyance. But as he looked around, he saw no one who could comply with his order. The cavalry were getting closer by the second. The mill exploded in a furious cloud and his horse reared in fear. Alexander fought to bring the beast back under control.

"Fuck. RETREAT!" he yelled, spurring his horse toward the west. The cavalry continued to charge; a detachment of infantry took up their positions to fire as well. He pushed his mount to move, but a volley sounded and the noise caused the beast to add a burst of speed. He tugged the reins to change direction. "To the boats!" he called out, not even certain if anyone else was following him. 

Their scow was on the water, the lad already putting his pole into the river to push off from shore. Immediately, the boat began to sweep down-current….back toward the British. Not good. Hamilton squeezed his knees to make the horse jump aboard; two of his men joined him. "Make for the opposite bank," he told the young man. 

"I'm trying," the pilot answered. Alexander exhorted the others to take up the oars.

They heard the **BOOM** a second before the cannonball splashed just a few feet from the boat's hull. "Oh, fantastic. They have a cannon," Alexander observed. He felt almost like laughing. He was going to die here, shot or drowned in the river, or both, and never see Lafayette or Laurens or Washington or any of his other comrades again.

"Get down!" he shouted to his men, as another ball hit the river near them. Gunshots now added to the melée. The next thing he knew, his horse buckled underneath him. He scrambled off the wounded creature and had to waste a shot to ease its suffering. All the while, British rifles sang, and bullets rained around them.

"Fucking hell," Hamilton complained. "Row, damn it, or we're all dead men!" For himself, he primed his pistol again in the shelter of his horse's body, but there was no way to return fire yet.

"The current's too strong!" the young pilot said.

"We're getting too cl---"

Another report resounded and the speaker's words died in the middle of the sentence. 

"Fuck," Alexander said again. He reached out to check for a pulse and found the action unnecessary. He hadn't caught the corporal's name, but he was no less dead for being nameless. Another bullet whizzed by him as he pulled his hand back from the dead man. Someone screamed. He looked over; another soldier had let go the oar and was clutching his arm. Bright red blood flowed over the man's hand.

"Can you scuttle the boat?" Hamilton asked their pilot.

"No, sir! I couldn't, where'd we get another? My pa would murder me…." the kid babbled in terror.

"They'll seize it if we don't," Hamilton shouted back. "We have to--"

 **BOOM** went a cannon, taking a chunk of wood out of the side of the boat. Water sluiced over the deck. 

"Oh, shit! Shit, shit shit!" the kid shrieked. Another shot grazed the hull. They had the distance now.

"Abandon ship!" Hamilton exclaimed, and he grabbed the boy by his shirt and pulled him into the river. Bullets cut through the water around him on all sides. 

Hamilton kicked hard into the current. He stayed under the surface as long as he could, but before too many strokes he had to come up for air. The wounded man, he noted, was also in the water. He took a deep breath and ducked back under, swimming with all his might. The current was strong, and the water deep, but he'd swum in the ocean many times. He knew that he would have better luck--and get past the British columns faster--if he allowed the current to take him and only put his effort into crossing to the far bank. He grabbed the wounded soldier and tugged once to give him direction, but after that, he had his own life to worry about.

With every stroke, he thought of the hurricane that had flattened Christiansted, and how, against all odds, he had survived the tidal waves and floods that had hammered the town. He expected his death to find him, so familiar it was almost like a memory, and thought of how much he longed to see his mother again. But for the first time in his life, something kept him going besides grim determination or blind luck. He thought of his duty, his cause, and the nagging feeling that he was not yet done. Most of all, he kept thinking how he would hate to leave Lafayette and Laurens behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Laurens mourns a comrade....
> 
> French Translations:  
> Es-tu réveillé? - Are you awake?  
> tu te débrouilles bien - you're doing fine  
> peut-être - maybe  
> s'ils me donnent, je vais me rendormir - if they give them to me, I'll go back to sleep  
> Sois confiant - Be confident  
> Je suis tellement fatigué - I'm so tired  
> Je sais, je sais, c'est bien. Reste - I know, I know, it's okay. Rest (and/or stay)  
> Je ne me sentais jamais la balle - I never felt the bullet  
> Dieu te bénisse - God bless you


	7. Lesson Number 7: A Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still not very sorry....
> 
> Thank you to everyone who is leaving Kudos and Comments - y'all give me lifeblood, honestly. Okay, I'm sorry about one thing in this chapter: Laurens and his amazing navel-gazing. Lots of internal monologue! But I promise that next chapter will have more action. (And yes, _that_ kind of action, too.)

"I'm sorry to report it, sir, but there can be no doubt. I myself saw his boat taking heavy fire. Colonel Hamilton and all hands on board were forced to abandon ship and they were heading directly for the enemy, swept up in a swift current." Captain Lee shook his head. "I saw him go under and he did not resurface. I cannot but think he is dead, sir."

General Washington closed his eyes in silent acceptance. "And the mill?"

"It went up, sir, but the British will surely make for Philadelphia now."

"Yes. Thank you, Captain."

"Sir, did the Colonel have any family?"

Washington paused. He looked over at Laurens for confirmation. "No, I don't believe he did, Captain. That will be all; get some rest, son, you've earned it."

"Yes, sir." Captain Lee rose. "If I may, Your Excellency, he was a fearless combatant and an instinctive commander."

"You may," Washington said, nodding. "Dismissed."

When the Captain had gone, Laurens stood. "Will there be...anything else, sir?"

"Yes. There's a bottle of whiskey in that bag over there; get it out, will you? We'll drink to his memory."

Laurens' breath caught in his throat. It was the middle of the morning, a most unusual time for the General to indulge. Indeed, he had rarely seen the General touch hard spirits at all, much less so early in the day. Perhaps His Excellency meant it only as a nicety. For Laurens, the act was not just a perfunctory gesture, though; it was an admission of acceptance he was unwilling to allow. Though he had only known Hamilton a few weeks, he could not bring himself to believe that the other should have died so soon. He was not ready to toast Alexander, as if the simple action were all that was needed to set him aside.

"Is...is that all there is to do, sir?"

Washington shrugged in a slow measure of defeat. "He had no family. I wouldn't even be certain where to send a letter of condolence. He had formed no attachments--unless you know of one?"

"No, sir, I--that is, I've no idea. He hasn't mentioned writing to anyone in particular in some time. Perhaps Tench would know--or Mac--"

"You may inquire, if you wish, of course," Washington said, "but I think he was quite alone in the world. Apart from his friends here, that is," he continued softly. "Fetch the whiskey, if you please. Toast or not; I need a drink."

This statement made John take a fresh look at the General. He seemed tired, wan, somehow...deflated. It was a more marked disillusionment than he had ever seen in the commander, including the day before yesterday, when they had arrayed on the battlefield face-to-face with Howe's forces...only to stand, helpless, as both armies were pounded by a deluge from massive clouds overhead. Then, the mood had been an equal mix of disgust and relief (for they saw just how very ill-prepared they were against the full force of Howe's troops). Now, however, the General looked old, and sad, and mournful. And he was looking for a drink in the middle of the day.

Feeling contrite, Laurens revised his opinion of Washington's reaction. His iron-firm control belied how affected he truly had been by Lee's report. Hamilton's death had, it seemed, hit him as shockingly as it had Laurens. The drink wasn't a perfunctory ritual for Washington, either; it was a sincere expression of loss. John fished out the liquor. Washington pointed to a table with a pewter place setting; two small metal cups were there as well. Laurens brought the cups and the bottle, and Washington poured out two drams. He handed one to Laurens, then stared at his own for a long moment. 

"To Hamilton," he intoned, his voice cracking on the name.

"To Alexander," Laurens responded. A tear escaped his eye. "I...still can't believe it, sir."

"That's the nature of war, son," Washington said morosely. "A quick death means no suffering, but it leaves one's comrades bewildered at the sudden loss."

"It _is_ a loss, sir," Laurens agreed.

"Yes. He was uncommonly gifted." He mumbled something else, so quietly that Laurens could barely make it out. He thought the Great Man had said, "He'll be sorely missed," but before Laurens could say more, Washington sighed. "Dismissed, Colonel Laurens."

"Sir?"

"Go, son. I need--I know you'll want to find the other lads and tell them the unhappy news." He said this distractedly, though, and Laurens could tell this was an excuse. With sudden insight, he realized that Washington wished to be alone.

"Yes, I shall. And--Lafayette? He ought to be informed. Permission to ride for Birmingham, sir?"

Washington poured himself a second swallow of whiskey. He drank it. "Denied, regretfully. I need you here. Especially now that--" He leaned forward, resting his head on one palm, and could not bring himself to finish the sentence. Rubbing his forehead as if it ached, he continued, "I wish the news could be broken in person, son, but a letter will have to do."

"I--understand, sir," Laurens said. "Then I'll--I'll find a way to tell him. Permission to retire?"

"Granted," Washington said absently, reaching for the bottle again.

~

Laurens felt a cool breeze on his face as he left the tent. The wind was kicking up and it looked like it might rain--again. But the breeze dried tears that he tried to keep at bay. Hamilton gone. It seemed impossible. He was such a force of nature, constantly at work and consistently excelling at whatever he undertook. Dead. The finality of it staggered Laurens. He wished he could discuss it with his father. His father had assured him that an aide's position would marry the best of both worlds: on one hand, he would be close to the center of the war, at the right hand of the army's commander; on the other, he would generally be occupied running messages during engagements and would be less likely to sustain serious injury than if he led his own men. While the latter was not particularly to John's own taste, he knew the thought of it comforted his father. He wanted his father's advice now, on coping with the loss of another man whom he thought of like a brother. He thought of Jemmy, and this fresh wound opened the old one again, too. He had already written to his father yesterday to tell of the aborted battle, but perhaps he would pen another short note, if he could put his thoughts about Hamilton into some sort of order.

And amidst this grief, he had to find a way to explain to Lafayette, without benefit of a personal visit, that their companion had met his end.

He briefly considered disobeying Washington and riding for the meeting house anyway. It was not quite time for dinner; he could ride all evening, deliver the news, and return before the breakfast meeting. Then he would simply work through the next day without sleep. Hamilton could have done it, so why not John Laurens? 

_Because you're not Hamilton,_ he told himself. 

He lacked Hamilton's constitution, his determination, his gift with words, his quick mind. He wondered with a pang how Washington would cope without his right-hand man, and what it would mean for the war. He felt a sense of futility, though rationally he knew the war was more than any one man. It simply seemed incredible that Hamilton, so unstoppably alive, could have been snuffed out so easily.

Well, not easily. If Lee's story were to be credited, Hamilton had gone out in about as glorious a fashion as any of them could hope. He would have to tell the Marquis that, in his letter.

His letter. New guilt filled him as he directed his steps to the tent where they worked. The other lads had all been sent on errands, leaving him alone. He lit a lamp against the gloomy day, selected a piece of parchment, and sat. He dipped a quill and began to write.

>   
>  **From Lt. Col. John Laurens To Maj. Gen. Lafayette** [18 September 1777]
> 
> _My Esteemed Marquis,_
> 
> _I am well loathe to bear to you any news which will surely bring you grief, but our present extremity being such that we cannot spare anyone to bring you word in person, these lines will have to suffice. There is no easy way to tell you that which I must report. Our beloved Hamilton was lost yesterday evening in the Schuykill River. Captain Lee witnessed the terrible event. I feel certain you will want details, but I have not the heart to relate them just at present. With luck, our movement will allow a visit while you recover from your wound, but if occasion does not permit, then I promise I will entreat Lee to write to you himself with his account._
> 
> _I know you loved him dearly--_  
> 

Laurens paused. _Loved him dearly_ , he had written. His hand trembled. Well, of course, the Marquis _loved_ Hamilton. Even Washington, in his way, had loved the man. Hamilton had been a man whom one either loved or hated; there was no in-between. But in writing the simple phrase, Laurens considered it in a slightly different light. What if the bond that had tightened between Alexander and Lafayette had been physical as well as emotional?

It was unthinkable, of course. In his wildest dreams, he would never have accused either of his friends of impropriety of that nature. And yet...and yet...it made a certain sense. Their sudden rift, mended again so easily and with an even stronger closeness than they had enjoyed before? John thought back to the way the Marquis had been upset with himself that evening after he had arranged their picnic, and how each of them had been lost in his own thoughts. Then there were Alexander's words the next morning: _"Let's just say he's wrong about something, and I'm blameless,"_ and _"It was a misunderstanding."_ Though there were many possible misunderstandings they could they have had, Laurens could think of no argument that he could believe would have passed between them. Lafayette would never have impugned Hamilton's background or circumstances; he would not have insulted Hamilton's honor; certainly he would never say or do anything to belittle the other, even in the way of critique. So what else could it have been, if not one of them taking his affection too far? 

His father's admonitions against the ills of Parisian society also returned to John in a flood. His father had been, if anything, even more concerned about London, but from time to time he had allowed that the source of the lax attitudes toward vice found in that city derived from an undue French influence. "Learn the language, my boy, but not the habits, nor the sensibilities," he was fond of saying. Lafayette, John knew, had been orphaned at a young age and raised, for practical purposes, in the riding school he had attended. Without a positive influence such as John's father was to him, he might have been an easy target for an indiscriminate older scholar--or even a preceptor.

As for Alexander…. He had known next to nothing about Hamilton--as, it seemed, even Washington knew little--and yet he had felt drawn to Hamilton time and again, over and above the others in the family. The same could be said of Hamilton and Lafayette. Could he have been harboring a corruption all the time? That did not entirely square with Alexander's insistence that he had given no offense to the Marquis, but then, if he had been in fear for his reputation, he might have lied even to a friend such as Laurens. 

It was distinctly uncomfortable to conceive of the dead in so ill-favored a fashion. Laurens tried to think. In the time he had been among the General's family, _had_ he detected any hint of impropriety in Hamilton? No…. Since he arrived in camp, it had been Hamilton's welcoming smile, his high expectations, his work ethic and his warm encouragement that had made John feel as if he belonged. But none of that could have been said to be unscrupulous--if anything, it was John's own feelings that he had had to school. For all that Hamilton had mentored him, John also flattered himself that he had been a steadying presence for the other. Hamilton valued his opinion, looked to him for support, and from John's vantage point, sought him out as often as John sought him. Hamilton had made him feel at ease. It was almost possible to forget that his father occupied a prestigious post and that John had been sent as aide to Washington by dint of his family's status. Hamilton had judged him only by his actions. 

Which was why it was difficult now to suppress how selfish those actions had always been. How many times had he stolen glances? How often had he resisted the temptation to hold hands, or link arms? He had deliberately lengthened the times they spent together, sought out Hamilton when they had choices about where to sit or with whom to share duties--though always being careful to remain rigidly proper in his relationship with the other. Still, he had longed to know more about Hamilton, had prayed and hoped that Hamilton would eventually open up and trust him--indeed, he had been jealous of the Marquis and Hamilton when he concluded that they had shared stories with one another and not with him. Perhaps Hamilton's own reticence to discuss his personal life had been rooted in predilections that he had assumed Laurens would revile?

He _ought_ to have reviled them.

But would he have reviled them, in truth? Now that the man was dead, John found himself unable to deny any longer how attracted he had always been. It shamed him to think how many nights it was Alexander's eyes, and not Martha's, that he saw as he drifted to sleep. If he really was honest with himself, John had almost-- _almost_ \--fooled himself into thinking that he could unburden himself and find in Hamilton someone who would, if not feel the same, at least not condemn him for his feelings. But no, thinking back on their interactions throughout the spring and summer, Hamilton had never given the slightest indication that he might entertain an impure or inappropriate thought about his companion. Then again, neither had Laurens. They had both been the picture of correctness.

Until Lafayette had come along.

"Oh, my God," John whispered, and he uttered additional prayers for Hamilton's soul and--if necessary--Lafayette's, and certainly his own wickedness. The man had been dead less than a day and he was impugning his reputation for his own peurile fantasies. No. He ought to have rejected the idea as quickly as it occurred. It was simply impossible to consider that his two best friends were in fact as vile as he.

It was impossible to consider that they would do such a thing with each other. 

It was impossible to consider that they would do such a thing...and not tell him.

It was impossible to consider that they would do such a thing...and not include him.

"Stop it, John," he told himself. "Just stop it. Excellent. Now you're talking to yourself like Hamilton always did."

"What did I always do?" a voice that could not be real asked. Laurens was so badly startled that he knocked into his writing table, tipping the inkwell over his opening paragraph.

Swearing, Laurens caught the inkwell and the table. He swung around, expecting that his mind had played a trick on him. Sure enough, Hamilton's ghost stood before him, his hair limp and untied and his clothes sodden and muddy from the river. His cheeks were in high color and his eyes bright, as if he might take a fever with him into the afterlife. 

"Hamilton!" he gasped. "I--you--you're dead!" 

The apparition fixed a quizzical look at Laurens and smiled slyly. "Nice to see you, too?"

Laurens backed away. "What are you doing here?"

"Well...for one thing, I need dry clothes--and a new copy of my orders. Lost my saddlebag in the river. And I wasn't sure if Lee made it back already but I thought if he had gone on to Philadelphia, then I should probably check in--guhh!" He broke off because Laurens had embraced him in a tight hug, pinning his arms to his sides. "Laurens? I'm not dead," he pointed out.

"I know, I see, I can tell that…" Laurens answered into the shoulder of Hamilton's soggy coat. The man was solid, a little chilly and damp, but no less alive than he had been six days ago. Laurens squeezed him around the waist to reassure himself. "You're real, you're not a ghost."

"No, I'm very real. Uh...John?"

"Yes?"

"Are you--planning to let go?"

"I--no," John said. In that moment, he believed that if he let go, he would lose his nerve forever. He let his hands wrap all the way up to Hamilton's shoulders, bent his head down, and kissed him.

The effect on Hamilton was nearly instantaneous. He stiffened and his arms pressed outward to break free; his hands raised up toward Laurens' shoulders--doubtless, John thought, to push him away. Hamilton's lips parted in what must have been shock. John broke contact as quickly as he could, but it was too late to undo the damage. 

They stood, staring at one another. Laurens heard Hamilton make a noise in his throat, as if trying to clear it or make sense of what had just happened. Then two officers passed the tent and the sound of their conversation, their sabers clinking in their scabbards, brought Laurens back to his senses.

He ducked his head and backed away quickly. "Sorry--God, I'm sorry--I--"

"It's all right, John…"

"It's only--you're alive," John continued, overriding Hamilton. "I mean....we thought--Lee reported that he'd seen you taking heavy fire in the river. He said you went under." He pressed his hands into his sides, rigidly proper. Here was the moment Hamilton would tell him that no matter the provocation, his conduct was wholly unaccceptable.

"I did, to avoid the rifle fire!" Hamilton laughed, instead. "When I surfaced and made it to shore, I had to figure out where I was. And whether to try to find the army again or press on to Philadelphia. I've sent John Hancock one message and I've a second to send, by the way--is he going to believe they came from a dead man?"

"No, no, we'd only just heard."

"Well, that's a relief," Hamilton said. "John…. About what just happened--"

Laurens babbled out a plea. "Let's--please let's forget about that. I'm not--I don't know what came over--" He was so fixed on his own protection, laughing off the incident, that it took him several sentences to realize Hamilton was also speaking. 

"I'm not sure how to apologize--if we could just pretend that never happened--I was simply--"

"Wait. What?" they both said at once.

"I said forgive me, please," Laurens said first.

"There's--nothing to forgive, my dear Laurens," Hamilton replied. "The fault was mine. I'm sorry you thought I was--dead." It was a substitution, Laurens could tell.

"That's hardly your fault! Still, obviously, I was...overcome. Captain Lee got back this morning and told the General--Oh, good Lord, the _General_!" Laurens clapped his hands to his face. "We have to tell him right away."

"Yes, I was going to rep--"

"Come on!" Laurens spoke directly over his friend, who for once was catching up rather than running a hundred miles ahead of everyone else. He grabbed Hamilton's hand and dragged him out of the tent. "He'll be overjoyed--truly, you've no idea, Hammie, he was as dismayed as I've ever seen him."

"All right, I'm coming, but--John." Hamilton pulled back to stop Laurens in his tracks. For a moment, John was petrified that Hamilton would demand an additional explanation for John's odd chosen form of welcome. He needn't have worried. Hamilton instead asked, "How did the Marquis take the news?"

John grinned. For the moment, he didn't even think about his own jealousy; it made perfect sense that Hamilton would be worried to have distressed his friends. "He hasn't yet. I was trying to write to him when you found me." He regarded Hamilton and, impulsively, enveloped him again in a fond embrace--one he was scrupulously careful, this time, not to deepen. He bumped Hamilton lightly in the chest with his fist. "Oh, thank God you're alive--and I didn't have to break it to him!"

~

They found Washington where Laurens had left him, though he had long since put the bottle aside and was back at work. Laurens went in first. In perfect solemnity, he said, "We've a fresh report on the Schuykill situation, Your Excellency. A messenger just arrived." 

"Very well. What's the message?"

"It's better if he tells you himself, sir," Laurens answered, deadpan. Then he stood aside and allowed Hamilton to step up.

"My God," Washington said, coming to his feet. "My _God_ , saints alive, my boy--you're not lost!" Then he, too, had closed the distance and was lifting Hamilton off the ground in a bone-crushing bear hug. "Nine lives, indeed," he marveled after he'd set Hamilton down again. "Martha was more canny than anyone guessed, naming that cat." 

"The British are sure to make for Philadelphia now, sir," Hamilton said, ignoring the man's uncharacteristically effusive response. 

"Yes. But come and let's toast to your resurrection, my boy!"

"I won't refuse a drink, thank you. My feet still aren't dry. I'm...not sure where my other set of clothes are."

"I have your things," Laurens volunteered. "Even those books you asked me to keep."

They drank a quick toast and then Washington asked for his tale. "But how did you get away? And how did you get back?"

Hamilton sipped the fortifying whiskey and told his story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Alexander takes a detour....


	8. Lesson Number 8: A Promise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, you get two updates in quick succession, duckies, because I got a huge amount drafted over the weekend and gang...I just gotta say, the next few chapters? I think you're gonna like them a lot. I hope, anyway! I can also tell you that with this chapter, I think we're approximately halfway through the story. If I don't get bitten by more chapter-eating vorpal plot bunnies like I did for chapter 10, extending the length...omg, kittens, CHAPTER 10, I can't wait for you to see it...but I'm fairly confident that we're looking at a total of 15 or 16 chapters. Maybe.
> 
> Anyway. Enough of that--on with the show!

When he was seventeen, Alexander Hamilton saw a man swept away by a tidal wave. One moment the man had been hanging on to a tree, and the next, he had been ripped away by the wall of water. He'd seen houses lifted by the force of wind and smashed to splinters when they crashed back to earth. He had survived--even he wasn't sure how or why he had been able to find decent shelter when so many others had died. 

In the current of the Schuykill river, he focused merely on surviving. He kicked his way to the surface every few seconds, grabbed a breath, and went limp again until he had to repeat the process. While he was under, he used short kicks to propel forward and avoid hitting anything: the bottom, rocks, branches, and other obstacles. After several iterations, he noted that the whizzing of bullets on all sides seemed far less constant; a few minutes later the shots had ceased altogether. He tried on his next few strokes to direct himself more toward one bank than the other and so, by stages, he made his way to shore. By that time, darkness was closing in on the countryside. The pilot and the wounded soldier were nowhere in sight.

He found shelter where he could confidently avoid detection and waited until the moon came up. Then by its light, he continued downriver to the next crossing (for he was on the wrong side from the Continentals, naturally). 

Around midnight, he arrived at a public house and stopped long enough to write John Hancock to warn Congress of the impending occupation--and learned of the position of the army. He hired a horse with the last of his money. From there, he had ridden through another cloudburst (cursing the loss of his hat) and reached the outer branches of the army camp around dawn. It had taken another hour to find someone who recognized him to let him past the sentry--though if he had been reported dead, that certainly helped explain the confusion.

"And you could not rendezvous with Lee without risking exposure to the British regiment," Washington concluded when Hamilton had finished his account of the river. "Your men?"

Hamilton shook his head. "There were three with me, including the pilot who had volunteered; one was killed instantly; another wounded. I don't know what happened to them after we went into the river." He sighed in self-recrimination. "I don't even know their names."

Washington nodded. "Losing men under one's command is the most sobering experience I know," he offered, with no hint of irony but much sympathy. "But I thank God that you have been restored to us. How soon will you be ready to ride for Philadelphia?"

Hamilton blinked. "Am I--still to go, sir? Is there time?"

"There's time, but not much. Two days ago we had hoped to meet Howe's men in a decisive battle but the weather had other plans." He briefly related the tale of the storm that had forced both armies from the field. 

"It was fairly spectacular," Laurens added. "We saw lightning strike some of the trees on the edge of the valley, not a quarter-mile away. The rain drenched us so badly that the dye from our hats was rinsing out. Dripping down and staining waistcoats, breeches and all."

"That's the storm that swelled the river," Hamilton agreed. He might have added something about lightning and rain, but he held back. No one needed to know how he felt about the weather in America, how even the worst thunderstorm he'd ever endured here had paled compared to the hurricane. "What do you think stays Howe? He could take the city in two days if he pushed."

"He won't push because he thinks we've got our tails between our legs," Washington said confidently.

Hamilton stood. "In that case, I can leave for Philadelphia immediately, sir," he said. He looked at Laurens as he said it, but the other had his gaze fixed on the General.

"Good. Go and clean up, find some food, get an hour's sleep, and report back. We'll draft replacement orders before you go; and we have revised inventories of what to procure. Blankets, clothing, and shoes are in particular need. One hundred men ought to suffice to take with you."

"Very good, sir." 

He didn't dare ask if he could stop and see Lafayette first. It wouldn't be too long a detour--and this was one time when it might be better to ask forgiveness rather than permission.

~

He sent the others ahead, telling Lieutenant Wilkinson that he had a side-mission and would catch them up before they reached the city. He knew he would make excellent time alone. Along the way, he could think about the kiss Laurens had bestowed--and what he had done in reply.

He counted himself extraordinarily lucky that Laurens had been overcome with relief--otherwise, Hamilton probably would have found his joyous reception rapidly turning to condemnation. In his surprise, he had responded amorously to an embrace that Laurens could only have meant as merely familial. Surely he had meant to kiss Hamilton as a brother, and surely, he had felt Alexander tense in desire, begin to open his lips, reach up to grab Laurens' hair.... Why else did Laurens back away so quickly? Obviously, he had sensed that Hamilton was about to kiss him back, much more deeply than Laurens' own chaste offering. If Laurens had been less embarrassed himself, or less self-effacing, or less generous toward his friends, Alexander could have ruined himself insolvably. 

It was tempting to blame Lafayette for corrupting him, but he had to examine the fault in himself. If it hadn't been Laurens…. If Meade or Gibbs had kissed him, would he have treated them like a man treats a woman? He didn't think so, but could he be sure? Was he growing completely untrustworthy around his compatriots? Was this a phenomenon Lafayette had also had to curb in himself, or was it just him? It would be far from the first time in his life he'd wondered whether he was the cause of his own suffering--whether there were something intrinsically wrong with him, that eventually showed its hand and sent those around him--justifiably--running for the hills. No matter how he tried to downplay his background, it always seemed to haunt him, to drive others away or induce them to hold him at arm's distance, eventually.

It meant, among other things, that he knew any relationship he ever forged was at best temporary. It was up to him to maintain connections, to stay on good terms, lest his friends, benefactors, and comrades inevitably discover his flaws and set him aside in favor of better prospects. It was why no young lady of breeding or means had ever taken his advances more seriously than a minor flirtation. He maintained his vow and never spoke of his childhood, but he knew that despite everything he did to conceal his West Indian origin, occasionally others discovered it. He never lied, precisely--but there were things he simply did not volunteer, ever. Perhaps they had some secret way to trace his illegitimacy, his lack of privilege, his cursed and checkered history, too. Thus, he did his best to impress important men who took an interest in him, to live up to their expectations, to cultivate the connections they might provide--without, of course, compromising his principles or selling himself short. And though his admiration of Laurens had nothing at all to do with the man's important father, he was aware that father and son were very close through their correspondence. He couldn't afford to alienate his friend, over and above having no desire to sabotage their friendship. He shuddered to think how close he'd come to pushing Laurens away with his shameful conduct. And yet, he'd been so gratified by Laurens' joy to see him alive, he hadn't been able to help himself. 

Yes, there had to be some flaw in him, some impulse that caused him to undermine himself just when he was poised on the brink of success. Perhaps it really was God's punishment.

He reached the infirmary just after sunset. Lying was easy; he simply told the physicians that he had orders to deliver a message to the Major General. After accepting a rudimentary meal, he followed an orderly to Lafayette's cot. A week's stubble sprouted on the Marquis' chin and lip; his hair was matted where it pressed into the pillow; but his skin had a bit of color back and he was dozing quite peacefully. While Alexander sat by the sleeping Frenchman, eating his stew, he spent the time trying to think about the supplies he needed to gather, and which families he might be able to press into assistance, but his thoughts kept returning to Laurens, and the desperate need to conceal his powerful attraction to the other aide.

"'Allo…." a voice said softly by his side. Alexander looked down; the Marquis de Lafayette was smiling up at him with sleepy, half-open eyes.

"Hello," he offered back. "How do you feel?"

Lafayette made a sound that was half-grunt, half-chuckle. "Like I 'ave been shot, _naturellement_." He blinked and opened his eyes more fully. "It's really you. What are you doing 'ere? I sought you were 'eaded for Philadelphia."

"I am. I needed to see you first. Are you hungry? I've still got some stew, here."

The Marquis declined by making a face that clearly said he did not feel up to eating. "Alexandre," Lafayette said, "you ought not...derelict...derelict? You ought not disregard your duty _pour moi_." He shook his head disapprovingly, but his tone was grateful.

"I'm not," Alexander assured him. "This is just a brief detour; the men are on their way and I'll be able to join them again tomorrow before they arrive in the city. I just wanted--there was a mixup on the Schuykill and I was afraid you'd hear that I was reported dead. I'm not dead," he added, though it was obvious since he was sitting right in front of the other.

"I'm glad to 'ear it," Lafayette said. He lifted one hand to touch Alexander's arm. "You didn' 'ave to ride all zis way to tell me, zough." He cocked his head to one side to look at Alexander at a better angle. "Somesing 'as 'appened. _Quoi?_ "

"Nothing, I--" Alexander sighed. "I just…. I needed to see you for myself."

Though wounded and, Alexander suspected, half-drugged, Lafayette lifted himself onto one elbow and fixed him with a somber moue. " _You take a risk, my dear, by disobeying the General's directives to come see me. I am fine. If you are also, then you will embarrass yourself behaving in this way. Someone might take notice. You must maintain discretion._ "

Alexander nodded slowly. The admonition was too similar to the things he'd been repeating to himself all through his ride to the meeting house. He'd been indiscreet with Laurens, and he was being indiscreet now in making a special trip to see Lafayette. And the reason he had done so was to confess his lapse in judgement. The irony was not lost on him. Yet faced with the younger man, he could not bring himself to say what was bothering him. He and Laurens had essentially promised one another never to mention it again, so...why tell Gilbert? What Lafayette did not know would not cause him to be further disappointed in Alexander. 

"You're absolutely right," he assured the other. "Don't worry. I'm quite recovered."

" _Bon_ ," Lafayette said with a decisive nod. "Since you are 'ere, 'ave you time to explain to me 'ow it was you were supposed dead?"

"It's rather an exciting tale," Alexander grinned. "Perhaps in your delicate condition I ought not to tell you."

" _Casse toi_ ," Lafayette said. "It's my leg, you dolt, not my 'ead or my constitution. I can listen perfectly well. Delicate? I'll show you delicate. 'Elp me up."

Alexander clasped Lafayette's arm and supported his back to bring him up on the cot. Then Lafayette swung his legs to the floor.

"Should you be--"

"Bah. It 'as been a week, I'm sick of zis bed."

They took a few faltering steps, Lafayette leaning on Alexander. "Let's go outside," Lafayette said confidently. "Fresh air will do more zan physick." 

"I really ought not to stay long. You're right; I shouldn't have come in the first place."

Lafayette patted his hand, and kept it clasped in his own. "I am...glad zat you come to see me. Only concerned zat you 'ad not ze leave to do it."

He was instantly relieved to realize that Lafayette was not cross with him, and had no intention of withdrawing his interest because of Alexander's miscalculation. Still, there was no reason to push his luck. He reaffirmed his earlier decision: it was much better to let the incident with Laurens pass unmentioned. Instead, he focused on Lafayette's situation. 

They stepped outside into cooling night air. Stars were coming out. Lafayette limped a few paces and sighed. "Mush better," he concluded. "It stink in zat place."

"How soon do they think you'll be recovered?"

Lafayette shrugged. "Ze General, 'e say to take all ze time I need. _Mais_ , I don' wish to miss ze _battailles_. It's not bad for long, I sink." He turned his head to speak directly in Alexander's ear. "Since you are 'ere, I mean to make you keep your promise, _hein_?"

Alexander gripped him around the waist. If Lafayette felt up to the exertion, who was Alexander to second-guess him? "Count on it. Where?" 

Lafayette pointed in a vague direction. Alexander scanned the camp: a few tents had been pitched around the central meeting house, but most of the men were sleeping out in the open. There was a stable on the other side of the yard, however. More than likely, it had inhabitants besides the horses, but it was their only option.

It smelled of horse and dung and hay, but there were, miraculously, only six occupants, and none of them were human. Lafayette was breathing heavily by the time they went inside, so Alexander helped him get to a pile of hay and shut the door behind them.

"Well, I suppose if anyone saw us, we can honestly say you were too tired from your walk, and had to rest before we came back," he said with a wry smile. 

" _Heureusement, je peux me reposer ici et faire cela_ ," Lafayette pronounced, leaning back in the hay and stretching like a cat. "Not zat zis is very comfortable…."

Alexander advanced on him with a grin. "All the poems mention gamboling in the hay but they do ignore how inhospitable it is." They had not brought a lantern, and with the door closed, the gloom of the stables made it hard to see. Only the fact that Lafayette's shirt was a dingy white made him visible. One of the horses whinnied as Alexander crept forward. "Scratchy and sharp…." He found Lafayette's boot and began to slowly make his way up. 

"Once, I even got poked in the eye with a stalk of hay," he said, squeezing Gilbert's knee, his thigh, and finally trailing his hand up to the crotch of his trousers. Gilbert breathed in a shudder, through his teeth, and out in an urgent hiss. 

"Yessss…" he whispered. "I 'ave missed you…."

"And I you," Alexander said, dipping his head to kiss the exposed triangle of skin where Lafayette's shirt collar was untied. It was like the contact opened a door in his mind. Suddenly, his survival from the Schuykill caught up with him, and he felt the lust and urgency that only affects one who has escaped death. It was as if the pace of the last week, his haste to resume his mission, and his rash desire to see Lafayette all had surrounded him with a layer of detachment from his own emotions. But now, with Lafayette's hands on his shoulders, his back, his hair, his arse--he realized in a rush that once again, he had been saved by some extraordinary luck or providence. He couldn't seem to die, no matter how he courted death. How soon would it come for him next? He felt a queer sort of despair, mixed in with a consuming need, a desire he could barely suppress. "I'm alive," he said, knowing it made no sense to his companion. He repeated it in an endless litany, all the while undressing Gilbert and roaming over his body with hands and lips. "I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive…." 

"Shhhh… _Alexandre, oui, tu vas bien, tout va bien_ , shhh..." Lafayette alternated between comforting him and inflaming his desire. He smoothed Alexander's hair, then untucked his shirt from his trousers and stroked his nipples with his thumbs. He kissed his cheeks tenderly while fumbling at the buttons on his flies. He clutched at Alexander's frame to bring him closer and bent his knee to grind it against Alexander's crotch. 

Their lovemaking was quick and desperate. They sank deeper in the hay; it scratched their legs and made it difficult to get a rhythm, but eventually they turned on their sides, Lafayette's injured leg high, so that it bore no weight, and Alexander reached down between Lafayette's legs to finger his arse. Within moments, he pressed his cock against the entrance and somehow forced the head inside. Gilbert groaned too loudly; two of the horses stamped their feet and snorted. Alexander held still. "Are you--"

"I'm all right, _oui_ , just push, push!," Lafayette ordered him, relaxing instantly when Alexander complied and entered him. "More," he whimpered, as Alexander began to cant his hips back and forth. "More, _Mon Dieu…._ " 

Alexander wriggled until his shoulder was under Lafayette's ribs, and he could press up out of the unstable platform of hay. The angle allowed for more movement. He pushed up and Lafayette tensed and rose with him, so that they wound up sitting, Lafayette in Alexander's lap. Gilbert pumped his hips, using his good leg for leverage. Alexander hesitated; the friction had to be painful, but Gilbert kept going.

"Don' stop, Alex," he begged, dropping quick kisses on the other man's face and neck. His stubble was nearly as scratchy as the hay, but much more welcome. "Don' stop. _Aime-moi, cher...tant mieux_...."

Permission was all Alexander needed to continue. He buried his face in Gilbert's chest and squeezed his eyes shut. As he clung to the other man, he felt the pressure build in his cock. He groaned into Gilbert's breast, almost at the point of tears. When the force of his ejaculation finally overtook him, he saw stars. In exhaustion, he collapsed onto his back, pulling Lafayette with him. He muttered prayers of thanks and blessings on his partner. 

"Promise me you won't die," he said through deep breaths as he fought for self-control.

"With pleasure," Lafayette said.

"No, dammit, don't humor me. I mean it."

"Alexandre, I swear to you, I shall not die. I'm going to live and so are you. And our Laurens, if you can convince him not to try so 'ard to get himself murdered." He soothed him with languid pets and brief kisses. "I understand, my dear. I know." He spoke softly of his great-grandfather, his mother, his father--all the people who had had to die for him to inherit his title and vast fortune. "I would gladly trade it all back to 'ave zem again. But I've my Adrienne and _ma petite_ Henriette at 'ome. And once we 'ave defeated ze British 'ere, I shall return to France and convince Louis to amend ze aristocracy, abdicate and establish a republic. Zere's simply too mush to live _for_ , Alexandre. I'm not going to leave before it's done."

"Forgive me," Alexander said, holding back his own anguish. He had none of the advantages--or the inducements--that Lafayette had to keep living. Only his dogged inability to die. "I don't mean to sound melodramatic. It's just that...everytime I come to love someone--to rely on their presence...it turns to ashes. _Les cendres_ ," he clarified when Lafayette questioned the term with a glance. He felt himself blush even trying to put it into words. He was sailing into dangerous, uncomfortable waters. If he wished to avoid disclosing himself further, he needed to tack away quickly. "So….I suppose I'm merely awaiting the drop of the other shoe."

"Why would I drop my shoe? I've only got ze one at present."

Alexander laughed, kissed Gilbert deeply, and explained.

Though he knew they had to get Lafayette back across the yard, that he had to ride through the rest of the night to meet his men, he allowed himself to close his eyes for a few minutes in Gilbert's arms....

> _"Jamie, is there something wrong with us?" he asked._
> 
> _James took too long answering. They could hear Maman and Father in the interim, through the floor. Their words were muffled, indistinct, but the unhappiness and anger in their raised voices was unmistakable. He didn't really need to hear to know why they were arguing. Maman hadn't wanted to come to St. Croix, and ever since they had, things had been going wrong._
> 
> _"No," James finally said. The reply was forceful for all its tardiness._
> 
> _"Well, why else would people call us--"_
> 
> _"People are idiots, that's all. They're the ones who are wrong. Father will sort it out soon, you'll see." His brother then pulled him back down to settle on the rushes that they used for a bed. He shut his eyes and tried to believe James could be right...._

He woke with a start. The image of his old house took a moment to dispel. It had been the hay, sleeping in its scratchy straws, that had conjured the memory. Once he remembered where he was, he shook Lafayette, who had also dozed off. "Come on, dear, it's time to go."

~

Philadelphia was colder, but otherwise just as humid and miserable as it had been a month ago, when he, Lafayette, and Laurens had paraded through the city with the General and all their troops in a brave show. He couldn't help but smile as he remembered their discussion of the General's plan--namely, to make the army look more impressive than they really were. 

Laurens had first told them about the parade, relaying orders that they were to inspect the troops and provide bayonets, cartridges, even linen, if they could, to every company in need. "We're meant to appear as saviors," he had explained. "We're to march straight through the city. Full colors, flags, drums--the whole kit and caboodle of us."

" _Que-ce que c'est une_...caboodle?" Lafayette had wondered.

" _Je m'excuse, c'est une expression,_ " Laurens had answered. " _On pourrait dire, 'tout le bataclan.'_ "

"Ah, _merci_." 

March they had done, triumphantly if, it turned out, prematurely. Now, Hamilton was galloping back to take command of barely a single company, in a mad dash to strip bare the same throngs they had promised to save from British incursion, before ultimately leaving them to their occupation. 

No sooner had he arrived when a courier brought him a message from Washington, providing more horses and men, and chiefly with the particulars of where over a hundred pairs of shoes might be procured. "Fighting the war with fucking _shoes_ ," Alexander muttered, but he sent men to inquire, anyway. He tried to call on Hancock only to learn that the majority of the Congress had already fled the city based on his warnings.

It was early enough in the day that he could send men to the docks to commandeer barges. He had twenty-five men take inventory of everything on the ships, first, and put ashore only the things they would not need. While they were at that, he sent three Lieutenants to the largest stables in the city to select horses. A further complement of six officers were sent round to those homes where, Alexander knew, there was a choice of mounts and draft horses, as well as other supplies. 

For three exhausting days, he drummed up requisitions, negotiated with merchants, browbeat and cajoled and pleaded with citizens, but eventually, he made progress. He realized belatedly that he should have asked for an aide of his own; as it was, he had to keep all his own records and correspondence. He authorized his lieutenants to issue receipts, but he had no clerk to enter the amounts and goods when they were brought to his dockside headquarters. Well, he had managed less organized operations before, by himself.

He maintained a punishing pace, barely pausing to eat and going without more than twenty minutes' sleep in as many hours, for the duration of his mission. When he did have to shut his eyes, he found that his dreams conjured memories he did not want, but a catnap here and there could not be avoided. The shorter the duration of his sleep, the better it was to keep the images at bay. He did not have the time, leisure, or inclination to contemplate why these particular memories and dreams had chosen to haunt him. He could hazard a few guesses, but indulging the thoughts would not change the past, nor would it assist him in his current tasks. Nor did they offer any guidance for the future. He wished his subconscious would stop tormenting him with dreams that could not possibly make any difference. He tried to set those recollections aside in favor of remembrance of Lafayette, but that was hardly less distracting--only more pleasant. It had the advantage of being more easily explained, if necessary, with only minor alteration in the identity of his paramour. 

Laurens made regular appearances, too. Sometimes he was bloody and dying; sometimes he was smiling down at him. Sometimes it was the memory of lips touching his, and he woke feeling guilty and ashamed.

When scouts reported sightings of the British, Hamilton felt both frustration and relief. It took the better part of the day to mobilize. He issued his final receipts, gathered up the last of their spoils, and boarded, with the remainder of his company, on the last of the ships bound for Pott's Grove. People had been evacuating since his first message had reached John Hancock, and the British would be marching into a half-deserted city. It was also a city he had more or less picked clean, but it still rankled that the British could easily hold it with a fraction of their troops and maintain their position with the bulk of their forces at Germantown. His only consolation, besides being able to rejoin the lads, was that traveling by barge, he could sleep almost the whole way back. He prayed that if any dreams invaded his rest, they would be the welcome variety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Laurens proves he's as brave as he is reckless....
> 
> French Translations:  
> naturellement - naturally  
> pour moi - for me  
> Quoi - What  
> battailles - battles  
> hein - eh / hm (as in the Canadian eh, eh?)  
> Heureusement, je peux me reposer ici et faire cela - Luckily, I can lie here and do just that  
> tu vas bien, tout va bien - you're doing fine, everything is fine  
> Aime-moi, cher...tant mieux - Love me, dear... so good  
> On pourrait dire - One might say  
> merci - thank you
> 
>  
> 
> (I know, I know. Last chapter no French; this chapter ALL THE FRENCH.)
> 
> I love everyone in this bar! All y'all with your comments and your kudos and your "Dammit, why can't I give kudos on chapters"- you make me insanely happy and grateful! Spread the love, folks! Send your mates over to give my little fic a try. I can't wait to get you the next few chapters, honest! Just gotta get a little further ahead so I can properly bait you with what's coming. (Also, still looking for more betas, and will happily trade beta-service in kind.)


	9. Lesson Number 9: A Stalemate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artistic License alert. MANY of the details of this chapter are real, but I had to reconcile conflicting accounts, and in some cases, simplify (or add additional complication) for the sake of the story. In other places, I just filled in around the edges or made things up. (And in still other cases, I made things up and then found out I was scary-accurate). 
> 
> It might be a little while before the next update--I'm out of town this weekend and won't have a lot of time for writing for the next few days. But I'm still excited to get you the next few chapters! So I may cheat and post even if I'm not a full three chapters ahead in the writing. 
> 
> I love everyone in this bar!

"What do you think?" Laurens asked quietly. It was just about dawn. The fog was still thick and heavy. The mansion loomed through the mist, its first-floor windows all shuttered. The bodies of more than four dozen Continental soldiers littered the elegant lawns and drives leading up to the main house and its outbuildings. Some few had managed to breach the door or got close enough to the windows that they lay right up at the edge of the house.

"I think this is growing both macabre and potentially tragic," Hamilton replied. "I take General Knox's point, but if something isn't done about this house, we might miss the whole battle and lose all three regiments to a handful of British soldiers."

The day before, Washington had called a war council and asked Hamilton to take the minutes. The General had laid out his battle plan. As Hamilton wrote it down, and the reactions of the Brigadiers, he had wondered about its wisdom, but he had been too occupied with keeping pace to say anything to the General--and anyway, he would not have wanted to appear to criticize. He had only managed a very quiet comment or two, seated as he was at Washington's right hand, and even that had not gone well with half the General's council. Since that morning, they had been in full activity, first readying the men to march, and then, as dusk fell on the valley, making their way with quiet and as much speed as could be mustered, to Germantown, where intelligence assured them Howe was encamped. 

Along the way, their columns had taken heavy fire from Cliveden, the stone house now standing, impenetrable, before them. It was a large mansion, and the wealthy owner, Benjamin Chew, was currently being detained in New Jersey. The place could not be harboring more than sixty men, and Hamilton suspected it housed fewer than that, but however many were inside, they had enough powder and shot to hold their makeshift fortress for as long as necessary. 

The march had been suspended while the generals debated what to do about the obstacle. All it had taken was a comment from General Knox about potentially leaving their rear undefended. General Washington had instantly given Knox three regiments to take the solitary domicile. Laurens had volunteered to stay behind as aide and liaison.

But the initial siege had delayed them at a crucial moment, and the remaining group had been engaged for another hour, now. The main force was approaching the primary battlefield with no sign of Knox or his men. Hamilton had doubled back twenty minutes ago to find out what was keeping them. The answer was not encouraging; nothing Knox had thrown at the homestead had made a dent. And there was the matter of the additional dead. 

"I agree," said Laurens. "If what you told General Knox is true, we need to leave as soon as possible if we're going to rendezvous with the others on the General's schedule." He wasn't wrong; they had been picking at the house for fifteen minutes just while Hamilton had been there. The sun would rise in less than an hour and they needed to make good time to reinforce the rest of the troops.

"I'll talk to Knox again," Hamilton said. "See if I can get him to give this up."

"Wait a moment," Laurens said decisively. "Let's stir things up a bit first, shall we?" He moved through the officers until he came to a group of French volunteers and another American, Major John White. He introduced White to Hamilton, and then to the others, said, " _Qui veut avoir un peu de plaisir_?" he asked the men.

"I'm in, of course," White said immediately.

" _Depends on what you mean by fun,_ " answered one of the Frenchmen.

" _We're all tired of this standoff. Care to cause a commotion_?" Laurens proposed.

The man shrugged. " _Eh, why not? Anything is better than being picked off a few at a time like this. The cannons have not dislodged so much as a stone. I was just saying, perhaps a fire…._ "

" _Right. Come with me_ ," Laurens said. With a wink at Hamilton, he took the Frenchman with him to grab up a few enlisted men. Laurens and the Frenchman spoke for a bit in rapid French, devising a plan.

"Wait--Laurens!" Hamilton hissed after him in the loudest whisper he dared. "What are you doing?" 

He followed, trying to keep track of Laurens in the mist. The older, but less battle-hardened aide was speaking now to a company of about half a dozen musketry. As Hamilton reached the group, he heard a snatch of Laurens' instructions.

"When these gentlemen and I rush the house, provide covering fire," he said. "We need some straw…."

"There's a barn just to the other side of that cart," Hamilton pointed out. "What are you going to do?"

"God willing, I'm going to end this wretched debacle," Laurens muttered to him. "Have you a light?"

"No, but--"

"I've got flint, begging your pardon," said a militiaman nearby. 

"Oh, excellent!" Laurens said. "Well done, cheers. Something to use as a brand, then…." He ran around for a couple more minutes, gathering supplies.

"Should you tell the General…?" Hamilton ventured.

"If it works, make sure everyone will take action; if it does not, then the General cannot be blamed for the attempt," Laurens told him. 

One of the militiaman's comrades came up with a slim log that had not been too soaked by the fog and rain. White brought up another. With the flints, the Frenchman and the militiaman got the brands smouldering; more infantry ran up with hay gathered in a burlap scrap. "Good work," Laurens said, and drew his sword. "John Laurens, at your service. Your name, Monsieur?" he asked the Frenchman. 

"Chevalier Duplessis-Mauduit," the man introduced himself. They shook hands, then the Chevalier also drew. 

"I'm going to circle round to the north; perhaps if you draw their attention to the front, I can get at them from the rear," said White. They shook hands and he took off with a few other infantry.

"Ready? Don't fire unless they do, and then take care not to hit us," Laurens told the small squad. He gave White a few more moments to get into place. "And--now!"

The unit walked forward several paces while Laurens and Duplessis-Mauduit pulled ahead at a run. Staying low, they approached the front door. Duplessis-Mauduit cut left to one of the windows and pried the shutter open. Laurens slammed into the door with force, actually dislodging the latch. The door opened inward several inches. Laurens threw the straw bundle into the breach. Duplessis-Mauduit jumped back to the ground and danced away from a shot fired up at him from a ground-level grate. By that time, the British were also thrusting out of the door with bayonets. Laurens deflected at least one blade with his sword. Others tried shooting out the upper windows, but the pair were too close for their enemy to find a decent angle. 

Laurens brandished his sword and touched the flaming brand to the hay and doorjamb. It sparked, but it appeared smoky and slow to catch from Hamilton's vantage point. Laurens parried with the sword, holding the defenders at bay to give the fire a chance to flare. Duplessis-Mauduit had circled to join him; he made one British soldier bleed, then another, but they were already pressing the door shut once more to repel the men. Two soldiers appeared, running around the house; the Continental muskets cut them down. The riflemen inside the house began to fire on the six infantry providing cover; two of them fell and the others backed off, but that put them out of their own range, too. 

With the door shut, Laurens was thrust back onto the stone steps on the other side of the flames he had set. There was nowhere for Laurens and Duplessis-Mauduit to shelter and the British rifles began to fire through the upstairs windows at them, at virtually point-blank range. The Chevalier shouted to Laurens to fall back. Hamilton saw Laurens stumble as he reached the bottom step. He dropped his sword, rolled to the ground, and came back to his feet in one fluid motion. His sword was now in his left hand instead of the right; the other arm hung to his side. They turned and ran. All this time, Hamilton urged the fire to catch, but it was too damp and the flames too easily put out. As Laurens and Duplessis-Mauduit made for the Continental line, the rifles fired in earnest. He sprinted behind the six riflemen, who retreated with him as soon as he reached their firing line.

"Damn, that was--useless," he said as he returned to Hamilton. But he was not entirely correct: his action had given the men heart. Cheers went up to greet the little squad as they halted. The British fire ceased, and the house stood just as solitary and inpregnable as before. 

Duplessis-Mauduit told the story of his encounter at the window with relish. "'E ask me what I sought I was doing. I told 'im I was only taking a walk!" The group of soldiers laughed and cheered again. "Zen a companion of 'is came upon us and try to shoot--but 'e shoot ze firs' Rosbif!" Another round of laughter. "Zat's when I tell Laurens we'd better wander back 'ere; it's too dangerous near ze 'ouse."

"You're both insane," Hamilton said to Laurens, grinning. "Are you all right?"

"Ham?" Laurens said, breathing heavily from exertion.

"Yes?"

"Hold my sword," he started to request, but before he could offer the hilt, it fell from his hand and he clutched his right shoulder.

"Laurens!" Hamilton shouted. "You're hurt!"

"I'm coming to that conclusion," Laurens said.

Hamilton pushed the collar of Laurens' coat aside. "Is it in the bone?"

"I don't think so," Laurens answered. He tried to hold still while Hamilton inspected the wound. "Is it bleeding a lot? It hurts to look down; I can't see…."

"Can you walk a few more steps? Here, sit on the wagon." He helped Laurens to the cart, then eased his coat off. Blood sprouted on Laurens' shirt. Hamilton took his knife from his pocket and cut the shirt open at the bullethole. "It looks as if the bullet grazed you at an upward angle, John," he said. He knew John shared his own love of medicine and anatomy, and he reasoned that treating the wound in a clinical fashion might distract Laurens from the pain it was surely causing. He was certain it was the only thing keeping him calm, too. "It passed into the flesh here," he dabbed at the wound with the shirt, trying to pat the blood away for a better view, "and exited here." He touched the edge of the gash, higher up on the ball of Laurens' shoulder. "But it does not appear to have gone any deeper than flesh." He folded his handkerchief into a smaller square pad as a bandage, and pressed it to the open wound. "I do believe you may need some stitches. Shall you seek out the surgeon?"

"No, I'm all right. It barely hurts," said John, but his green pallor and the grit of his teeth gave him the lie. "Here, hang on." With his left hand, he pulled off his aide's sash. He then held it to his shoulder at the spot where Hamilton was holding the makeshift bandage. "Can you help me tie this into a sling?"

"Yes, I see what you want," Hamilton said. He held the sash in place against the bandage, then knotted it below John's forearm. "Keep pressure downward and it ought to hold the handkerchief in place. You'll bleed through it soon, though. Please, will you have it looked at?"

Laurens shook his head. "I can ride like this," he insisted.

"John, you're done for this battle," Hamilton replied with growing alarm. "You can't hold the reins with that hand, even if you can use your sword with the left."

Laurens appeared about to argue again, but his focus shifted to someone over Hamilton's shoulder. Laurens leapt to his feet, wincing a little in pain at the sudden shock to his wounded arm, and saluted left-handed. "General Knox, sir," he said, to signal Hamilton, who also spun and saluted.

"Colonel Laurens, that was extremely foolish of you," Knox said sternly.

"Yes, sir. My apologies, sir," Laurens answered. He swayed toward Hamilton, who leaned in to give him support and keep him upright.

"Foolish, but extraordinary," Knox continued. "Your action has given the men courage. Well done."

Laurens glanced at Hamilton and the other men, who had followed him, and then the General, in confusion. "I--uh--Thank you, sir?" he said. "Sir, what of Major White?"

The fading fire in General Knox's eyes, his slight headshake, told them all. 

"Colonel Hamilton, I believe you may have been right to recommend we abandon this target. These casualties make nearly 70 men expended on the venture. The Redcoats inside will not be able to rejoin their companies, but we have a chance to catch up with ours if we pull away now."

"I'm relieved the General has decided to take this course," Hamilton said solemnly. "If it please the General, I'll ride back at once to tell His Excellency you're on your way."

"Very good." Knox looked at Laurens. "Colonel Laurens, your conduct this morning was reckless but otherwise a splendid example of bravery and cool resourcefulness under fire. Please, have a seat." Hamilton eased Laurens back onto the cart. He thought he detected a faint shadow of relief on Laurens' face when he could sit again. "Hamilton, please present my commendation of this young man to His Excellency."

"With pleasure, sir," Hamilton said, smiling.

"As for you, Colonel," Knox said to Laurens, "ride in the wagon and when we reach the rally point, go and find the surgeon to look at that shoulder."

"I'm fine, sir," Laurens asserted, but Knox overrode him.

"That was not a request," Knox told him. "You'll be tired when we arrive; you're losing blood; and you won't be able to fight when you're already infirm. We need men like you, certainly, but we need them to be whole at the start of the engagement." He touched Laurens' good arm. "Go and get patched up, my boy, and write to your father and tell him that you showed great valor and won glory before breakfast."

With that, General Knox turned away and gave orders to his aides to pull the men back and get them marching for Germantown.

Laurens watched him go, a dark expression reddening his face. Because he was already sitting on the cart, some of the sergeants had brought their wounded over. "He's keeping me out because of my father," he commented. Laurens tried to give up his seat to a footsoldier.

"Idiot, he's keeping you out because you're _injured_ ," said Hamilton to quell him. He pushed him gently back down into the cart. "I have to ride with all speed back to the General. Are you going to behave? Or shall I be worrying with every gallop that you're going to leap out of this wagon before you've had a doctor look at that gash?"

Laurens had the grace to look sheepish. "All right. For you, Hammie, I'll allow myself to be hauled off on a wain."

Just then two soldiers stumbled to the cart, a man supported between them. It was Major White--not dead, after all, but gravely injured. His face was a bloody mess, painful to look upon. They lost no time finding another bandage for him, and Laurens swore to look after his comrade on the ride, so Hamilton could be doubly sure Laurens would stay put.

Hamilton was off immediately afterward. He put his spurs to his horse's flanks and told himself that his heart was only racing as an effect of the excitement, and not because Laurens had been hurt. And certainly not because Laurens had agreed to be sensible only because Alexander had asked it of him. 

~

This time, he made certain he would be able to stick close to Lafayette during the battle. He was heartily glad of it, for the fields were enveloped in smoke and fire. It was as if the British here had had a similar thought to Laurens', only they were using it to significant advantage. 

They could see the problem immediately--or rather, it was what they _couldn't_ see that was the problem. Everything was in a state of confusion. They were positioned with the far right column, composed of militia. The plan had been to keep even with Sullivan on their left, who was to keep even with Greene, and Greene with the left-most column under Wayne. But amidst the suffocating, stultifying fog and smoke, they could only creep forward at a snail's pace. And thanks to the highly varied distances each column had gone from their staging point, the lines had quickly lost track of each other. 

"Can you tell where Sullivan's men are?" he asked Lafayette.

" _Non_ , but where is Greene?" Lafayette said.

"He had the farthest to go," Alexander pointed out. "But it's well after noon, isn't it? Everyone should be--"

He was interrupted by a volley of musket fire in the distance. They both turned their mounts toward the sound. "It's ours," Alexander said.

"HALT!" Lafayette shouted to the men; they heard the order repeated by sergeants down the line. They came to a standing rest in waves. Lafayette and Alexander strained to guess the direction of the riflefire. An answering report cracked, muffled by the weather.

"British, so far east?" Lafayette asked.

Alexander shook his head. "That's ours, too," he said. "British carbines report at a higher pitch."

Lafayette narrowed his eyes. "I sink you are making zat up," he maintained. 

Hamilton shrugged, returning Lafayette's look of incredulity with one of conviction. "Do you want me to ride toward it and see if I can find out what's happening?"

" _Non_ \--zat is, yes, I wish to know what 'appens, but if you ride away you'll never find us again in zis sauce."

"Sauce… soup?" he prompted. 

"Soup, sauce, _n'importe quel_. Better to stay ze course, I sink." He nudged his horse forward and gave the order to continue.

They spent a further two hours inching forward, searching in vain for the other three-quarters of the army and hoping not to stumble upon the British before joining forces. Finally, they managed to spot Sullivan, deep in enemy territory, but the sound of gunfire at their rear persisted, and the militia lost faith. Despite all their efforts, the men ran. By the time they had exhorted their few remaining troops to join Sullivan, his men were in full retreat. They had no alternative but to turn back. At last they came across Greene, as well. Their goal shifted from attacking to merely keeping the withdrawal organized.

"'Amilton, remind me ze name of ze General assigned to protect General Greene's rear," Lafayette said as they passed each other while trotting back and forth to keep the units connected.

"General Adam Stephen," Alexander recited.

"'E's… 'ow you say-- _ivre_ ," Lafayette told him. "'E can barely sit 'is 'orse."

"Drunk?" Alexander goggled. "Are you certain?"

"Unless 'e's been struck by a bullet. Eizer way, 'e need _l'assistance_."

"Does General Greene know?"

It was Lafayette's turn to shrug. "I sink 'e would 'ave made ze man retire if 'e did," he reasoned.

"Where did you see him last?"

Lafayette pointed toward the rear of the line, near the earlier sources of gunfire. "I'll be back," Alexander promised, and spurred his horse in that direction.

"Alex!" Lafayette yelled after him, but too late; he was already heading for the center columns, where Sullivan's and Greene's men were intermixing in their retreat. He pulled up on the reins, gazing through the gloom for General Stephen. He stood in the stirrups for a better view. As soon as he caught sight of the man, he could see what Lafayette had noticed. He nudged his horse through the columns of retreating men. 

"General Stephen, you seem to be in some distress. Have you been hit?" he asked without any other preamble.

Stephen blinked at him several times, during which he swayed in his saddle. Hamilton noticed him righting himself with his knees rather constantly. "Is that Colonel Laurens?" the other man ventured.

Alexander rolled his eyes. He could smell the rum on the man's breath. "It's Hamilton, sir. Are you well?"

"Of course I am!" the man slurred angrily. "Hamilton," he huffed, as if Hamilton were not still right there with him. "Impudent whoreson boy."

"Begging the General's pardon," Hamilton said perfunctorily, barely containing a swell of rage. "Would the General be so kind as to ensure that the divisions maintain their columns? Should the British come upon us there will be a widespread confusion."

"Who's confused?" Stephen demanded.

Hamilton shook his head in disgust. He pointed in the direction of the retreat. "Just make for the hilltop, and then the rally point, please." He caught sight of one of Stephen's aides. "Make sure he gets back to the fallback position?"

The aide saluted and brought his horse alongside Stephen's. "Come on, sir, we're going this way," he coaxed. It seemed clear this was not the first time he'd done so. 

Hamilton watched them go, noted the aide placing his hand on Stephen's reins, and sought out General Greene.

"General Greene!" he called as he rode up.

"Colonel Hamilton," the General said with false brightness. "Fine day for it."

"Indeed, sir, and finer for some than others. Have you seen anything of the left column?"

"Rather too much, in fact. We stumbled upon each other half an hour ago and half of our companies believed the others to be the enemy."

Hamilton rocked backward at that news. Suddenly, the rifle fire he and Lafayette had heard made much more sense. "Was General Stephen in command of your forces who offered friendly fire?" he asked on a hunch.

"Yes--he was! How did you--"

"He's intoxicated, sir."

Greene's face grew stormy. "That is an alarming accusation, Colonel. Have you proof?"

"I had it reported from a reliable source; I've just come from a minute's conversation with the General and one of his aides, sir. It's most evident."

A muscle worked in Greene's jaw. He had been raised a Quaker, Hamilton knew, and abhored drinking, swearing, and all other manner of vice even more than General Washington. "Thank you, Colonel. Is the General able to supervise the withdrawal?"

"I believe his aide is able to ensure it," Alexander answered, after a moment's consideration.

"Very good. Leave it to me, my boy; I'll see to it directly we have retired."

"Sir." He then helpfully provided the General with an update on the retreat. When that was done, he said, "...And General Stephen's involvement in the confusion with General Wayne, sir?"

"That will require further inquiry, Colonel, but you may be assured I will undertake it and brief His Excellency as needed."

"Understood, sir." Hamilton saluted and rode back toward Lafayette.

Or rather, he rode back toward where he thought Lafayette _should_ have been. The Frenchman and his bay mare were nowhere in sight. He stood in the stirrups to scan the battlefield. It was still cloudy and the smoke made the day darken prematurely, though really it could never have been said to have gotten light at all. The columns were moving steadily, however, so he reasoned that Lafayette had to be somewhere along the line. Perhaps he'd simply angled too far up or down stream. 

A shot rang to his left. He wheeled toward it and could just make out the flare of a musket some sixty yards away. His eyes widened and he tried to pull his horse to the side, but before he could get the beast moving, the bullet sank into the poor animal's flank. It screamed and went down, its leg snapping from the motion. Hamilton barely got his foot clear of the stirrup to jump away as the horse fell onto its side. It twitched and its eyes rolled back in pain.

"Damn," he said sadly. He couldn't waste the round to put the poor creature down; he drew his sword and drove it into the horse's neck to end it. The British battalion was advancing in the murky darkness. He grabbed for the nearest sergeant and sent the word to go double-time.

""Amilton!" He heard the cry, but had to strain to find the Marquis. Horse and rider appeared in the distance, looking like a blurred watercolor. He took a diagonal path to meet him.

"Major General!" he answered, jogging over. 

"You've decided to walk back?" Lafayette teased him.

"Horse got shot," he answered with a grimace. The next moment he suppressed a grunt of surprise when Lafayette leaned over in the saddle, took his arm, and tugged. He launched himself as the other pulled him up behind the saddle, over the blanket. "This is not really necessary," he said.

"It is. You're not getting lost in this wretched _bourbier_. Wiz' your luck, my dear 'Am, _tu tomberas_ into a poodle and sink to your neck."

"Puddle, not poodle--hey! Was that a joke about my height?" Hamilton confirmed, goosing Lafayette in the ribs. The Marquis's snort of laughter was answer enough. "Ha bloody ha," Hamilton told him, grinning. But he seized the opportunity to grab Lafayette about the waist. The saddle, unfortunately, prevented him grinding his pelvis against the Frenchman's arse--but although the darkness would have been the perfect cover, they were close enough to the line of marching men that someone might have noticed them pressing together. Instead, he contented himself with placing one hand between the saddlehorn and Lafayette's groin. He pressed his fingertips against Lafayette's balls.

He was suitably gratified when Lafayette gasped and fought for breath. " _You're going to make us both fall off if you keep that up,_ " Lafayette said. " _Retreat now. Fuck later._ "

"Promise?" Hamilton said in Lafayette's ear.

"Oh, yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Chapter: Laurens makes a new friend....
> 
> French Translations:  
> Qui veut avoir un peu de plaisir - Who wants to have a little fun?  
> Rosbif - an ethnic slur for Englishman (derived from "roast beef," a staple of English diet)  
> n'importe quel - whatever  
> bourbier - quagmire  
> tu tomberas - you'll fall


	10. Lesson Number 10: An Exchange

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Also known as the chapter you've been waiting for.... Also known as "the dog that ate my chapter.")

Two days after the defeat at Germantown, near Valley Forge, the army was still licking its wounds. There remained a few items to dispose of. Hamilton and Harrison had been hard at work massaging the report of the loss into something that sounded more like a draw. They were waiting to see where Howe would go next, but so far he had remained close to their last battlefield. Laurens, his arm still in a sling, was unable to write letters, but he claimed he could ride, and thus was given the task of ferrying messages from one part of the camp to another. After sending him off on one such errand to the main camp, the the General told the aides his good news, and they made their preparations for Laurens' return.

"He's coming, sir," Meade announced, spotting the young man riding in with an uneven seat due to his injury. 

"Ah," General Washington said. He set aside the map he was studying. "Hamilton, the commission?"

"Ready, Your Excellency." The other aides set down their work. As Laurens dismounted and entered the house where they were headquartered, they gathered in a semi-circle behind Washington.

"Colonel Laurens," Washington said sternly.

"Your Excellency," Laurens answered, snapping to attention and saluting with his good hand. "I… Have I done something wrong?"

"I should say not, young man," the commander told him. "I've reviewed General Knox's report of your conduct outside Cliveden. On the whole, I found his account--enlightening." He held out his hand and into it Hamilton placed the commission. "I have here your officers' commission, which has been owing, and can think of no finer moment to bestow it." He handed it over, at which point Hamilton gave him a second gold epaulet and the green cockade of rank. Laurens drew himself straighter as Washington fastened the epaulet on his left shoulder. Laurens held out his hat for Washington to add the cockade to it. "With these, your rank is confirmed. Welcome to the family, Lieutenant Colonel Laurens." Washington saluted to him; Laurens saluted back. Then the other aides saluted him and he returned it with pride.

"Huzzah for Lieutenant Colonel Laurens!" one of the lads (Hamilton thought it was Gibbs) cried. 

"Huzzah!" they all chorused. After that there were many careful embraces and much affectionate slapping of his left shoulder. They walked him to the table, where he was given a quill to sign his Oath, which he did awkwardly but adequately. He was presented with a glass of sherry. With Washington's approval, they all toasted his official appointment. 

"There is some unfortunate business to attend, however," Washington said after they had all enjoyed a moment's celebration. "General Greene's inquiry into General Stephen's conduct at Germantown found enough cause to call a court-martial." He looked around the table at them all. "Naturally, the court-martial of a brigadier general is a serious matter. I expect you will all serve admirably and with discretion during the coming days. Colonel Tilghman, Colonel Harrison, I rely on you to assemble the tribunal; Captain Gibbs, Colonel Meade, you'll serve as reporters for the proceedings. Colonel Hamilton and Major General Lafayette are among the witnesses."

Hamilton felt his cheeks burn a bit. He had not told the others about their observations; he assumed Lafayette had not, either, though in their few moments of privacy, the inquest had not been high on their list of discussion topics. Now that a court-martial would be proceeding, it would be inappropriate for them to discuss it with any of the others. But court-martial or no, there was still the business of a war to run. Among the least pleasant of Hamilton's duties was assisting Washington in couching their defeats in terms that would appease Congress. The General's detractors were nipping at his heels and the pressure had turned his mood sour. Even the British were complaining to him--as evidenced by the letter Alexander was currently drafting in response to General Howe.

A little after four, there was a commotion outside in the yard. It sounded like voices raised in a game or sport.

"What's that noise?" Harrison snapped. 

Laurens stood up and peered out the window. "There're three boys with a twist of rope," he said. Then they all heard the distinct barking of a dog. "Ham, you have to see this!" 

"I've seen dogs. I've seen boys playing with dogs. They should get back to work," he muttered. He was two sentences from the end of a copy of the rewritten Howe letter and itching to get to something more worthwhile. Howe had had the colossal nerve to insult Washington for setting fire to the mills and causing "privation and suffering" throughout the countryside--as if he gave a damn about any of the citizens in the territory. He took some solace in the fact that his actions were the thorn in Howe's side, but he wished Washington had not edited his counterattack into politeness.

One of the porters knocked and entered. "Beg pardon, sirs, but them boys is wantin' to see someone on the General's staff."

That caused them all to look up in surprise. Laurens said, "I'll go," but Hamilton shook his head.

"Listen to that, will you? Six hours an official Lieutenant Colonel and our Laurens' first act is to hear the petition of drummer boys who want to keep a company dog."

They all laughed. 

"Don't be too soft on them. We've got no room for untrained, mangy curs," Harrison groused.

"On the contrary, my dear Colonel Harrison; our entire army is made almost exclusively of untrained, mangy curs!" Hamilton pronounced. "But I agree that they've no right to keep one with actual fur." He reached the last line of Washington's letter with perhaps more pressure on the page than necessary. "I'll go with you, Laurens. A delicate negotiation such as this requires someone with experience and judgement."

Laurens rolled his eyes and grinned. "So, why are _you_ qualified, then?" They walked out together to the sound of the others' jeers and catcalls. "Idiot," Laurens said affectionately. "You just wanted to stretch your legs, didn't you?"

"No, I meant every word." He placed a hand lightly on Laurens' sleeve. "You said you have a younger brother. If I know you, my dear, you'll see those boys and whatever mutt they've acquired and you'll melt. Your kindness will betray you on this occasion."

"Oh, come now. As an elder sibling I can deliver discipline when appropriate." He gave Hamilton a sidelong glance. "Speaking of temperament, why is yours so foul all of a sudden? Do you hate boys that much, or is it dogs that are the object of some undisclosed grudge?"

Alexander drew breath to refute Laurens, but caught himself. "You're right; I apologize, my dear. It's--" He broke off, not wanting to admit that Howe's letter and Washington's revisions had him lathered and feeling defensive. "If those boys are playing with a stray, it's likely they have some duty they're neglecting. They ought to show better industry."

"They're ten, twelve years old!"

"Yes," said Alexander, realizing that the problem likely wasn't as obvious to Laurens as to him. At twelve, Laurens had been a student in Geneva, with nothing to worry about but Latin, Greek, and the like. Not that Alexander had any wish to compare his difficulties with Laurens'--as Lafayette said, quite rightly, everyone had crosses to bear, and none of them had had sorrow-free lives. But the boys in the company had undertaken a profession, and a duty as soldiers, regardless of their youth, and they ought to be held to the same standards expected of any man earning his living. "They're old enough to know better," was all he said by way of explanation. He pushed past Laurens rather than meet his confused, pitying expression. 

Outside, there was a nip to the air, already, but the day was not cloudy, for a change, and the sun was still high enough to shine on the grass of the lawn, where it had not been torn up by traffic. The three boys stood in a line on the edge of the cobblestone walk. Only one looked to be a drummer; the other two were baggage boys. One of them held the end of a rough-made leash, fastened to a leather collar around the dog's neck. 

The dog wasn't a mutt, at all, but a splendidly bred pointer, and the collar engraved. The boys saluted. "Found 'er, sir, followin' the baggage train," the tallest boy said. He'd obviously been chosen spokesman. He explained their efforts to identify the owner, culminating in the decision to bring her to headquarters.

As the boy talked, Laurens dropped to his knee and held out his left hand. The dog sniffed at him and soon bestowed an experimental lick. Then it barked again, joyously, and reared on its hind legs a few times trying to put its paws on Laurens' shoulders. "She's gorgeous," he said, keeping the dog away from his injured arm. "All right, lads, back to your company," he told them, accepting the makeshift lead. "Tell your commander to give you each an extra ration of beer tonight."

They moved off with salutes and proud smiles and "Thank you, sir"s. 

"Let's see your collar," he continued, talking to the hound. "Ham--"

"I swear, Laurens, if you ask, 'Can we keep him?' I will never let you hear the end of it."

"What's all this?" Washington asked, appearing behind them. "As you were, as you were," he added quickly, when Laurens tried to stand to attention. "I thought I'd heard a dog," he said, confirming it to himself, when he saw the canine.

"Yes, sir. Baggage boys found this little lady. No one recognized her but she has a collar, sir," Laurens explained. Washington was already on his knees as well, petting the animal. Alexander crossed his arms, remembering that the General was fond of dogs. Was he the only person in camp who was not enchanted?

Washington, meanwhile, had twisted the dog's collar about. "Well!" he exclaimed. "Take a look at this, Laurens." 

Laurens peered at the collar and began to laugh.

"What?" Alexander asked. Maybe the dog's name was funny?

"It would seem this fine specimen followed the wrong army off the battlefield," Washington said. He was allowing the dog to sidle up to him and had begun absently scratching its forequarters. "She's a little lost, yes, yes she is, oh, yes…." he said. He petted her head vigorously and she licked at him.

Alexander barely controlled his eyeroll. "So, he belongs to a British officer," he concluded.

" _She_ ," Laurens said, emphasizing the correction, "belongs to _the_ British officer!" He snickered. "General Howe himself, if you please."

"Let's bring her inside," Washington said. "She looks like she could use a bowl of water."

The dog was instantly pampered by nearly all the aides. They found scraps and fed her, set down a bowl of water and generally paid more attention to the creature than they might have given a drawing room full of beautiful ladies. "We're keeping her, aren't we, sir?" Tilghman asked. "As a trophy?"

"Certainly not!" Washington replied, and for the first time, Alexander felt a glimmer of hope. Perhaps the General had not, in fact, lost his mind. "We are not savages, but men of honor. Besides, she's a lady, albeit of the canine persuasion, and thus doubly not our enemy. No, Lila here must be returned."

Alexander had already got out his quill. On a sturdy calling card, he wrote:

> General Washington’s compliments to Sir William Howe. He does himself the pleasure to return him a dog, which by its collar appears to belong to him

He crossed out "Sir William" and wrote "General" above it. Then he crossed out the last eight words and added another line:

> General Washington’s compliments to ~~Sir William~~ General Howe. He does himself the pleasure to return him a dog, which ~~by its collar appears to belong to him~~ accidentally fell into his hands, and by the inscription on its collar appears to belong to ~~his Excellency~~ ~~Sir William~~ General Howe.

Reflexively he added the date. Without saying a word, he held it out to the commander. Washington accepted the card, read it, and nodded. "Alexander! Son, you've read my mind. Copy it, if you please." He gazed down at the dog, cupping its jaw in his large, meaty hand. "Now. How to get you back to your master, hm?"

~

"This is so ridiculous," Hamilton muttered under his breath the next day. They were seated on horseback, watching Tilghman ride forward with the white flag of truce in one hand. Lila the pointer sat at Laurens' heel, panting happily. Alexander's note was tucked into her collar.

"You really hate dogs, don't you?" Laurens goggled at him. "Were you attacked by one as a child or something?"

Hamilton glared at him for a moment before realizing that Laurens hadn't meant to ask so direct a question about his past. "No, nothing like that," he said, much more mildly. "Believe me, I don't care about them either way. I'm only too happy to restore the creature; it's just a waste of time and resources to go about it with this much ceremony."

Halfway across, Tilghman had been met by a British officer likewise carrying the white flag. 

"Well, 'ow else would one do it?" Lafayette, nominally in charge of the exchange, asked from his other side. "'Is Excellency could 'ardly set 'er loose to roam, and any one of us who brings 'er back would likely be shot before 'e could complete ze task. Or captured afterward, _naturellement_."

"Yes, I take your point. A truce flag is sensible."

"Then, what--"

"Because we don't all have to be here, do we?" Alexander said, still softly but rather more testily. They had approximately a dozen men in the forward party; two battalions waited just on the other side of the rise, in case things went wrong. The British line watching from across the field easily numbered a full company. He and Lafayette had to prepare for the court-martial, since Lafayette ought not to use an interpreter unless absolutely necessary. Moreover, Hamilton had a sheaf of letters waiting on his desk, from Washington's brigadiers and generals, as well as Congress, demanding to know what Washington's next move was. Congress all had the unreasonable idea that the ragtag excuse for an army they had assembled would spontaneously summon superhuman power and display incomparable training to withstand the pressure of British might in the course of a handful of engagements. The generals all seemed to think Washington could produce those precious resources from thin air, including time for training, in order to meet Congress's expectations. The result left Washington in a foul mood and Alexander in the untenable position of go-between.

In truth, Washington's own optimism, and the way he and Harrison had stretched the truth of their situation, was wearing thin on Hamilton. It was one thing for Washington to defend his strategic decisions and downplay the extent of their defeats...but it also left them in a difficult position with regard to the begging Alexander knew they would need to do before long. Philadelphia's resources had not been nearly enough. They needed bullets, blankets, food, more heavy cannon, horses, and yes, even fucking shoes. It was incongruous to tell Congress, on the one hand, that the men were in good spirits and gaining confidence in the fight, and on the other, to press their extreme need for better training, discipline, and commitment from the soldiery. Privately, he had begun to wonder if perhaps some of the criticism being leveled against Washington were true, and that he was neither terribly decisive nor an innovative tactician.

But, none of this was appropriate to discuss where just anyone might hear it. Moreover, he knew Lafayette detested any remark that did not idolize their commander. So he left his scowl firmly in place for the rest of the proceedings and kept his thoughts to himself.

Meanwhile, Tilghman had turned his horse about and was heading back to them.

"They've agreed not to engage," Tench told them. 

"What did you say?" Alexander asked.

"I told them we have something belonging to General Howe and that we wish to return it. Are you coming?"

Alexander glanced down the field. "Laurens has her," he demurred. 

Laurens shot him a curious look, but kicked forward. The little dog trotted after him, for all the world as if she belonged at his heel.

"We need to go over your testimony," Alexander said to Lafayette after Laurens and Tilghman had ridden away.

"Oh, yes. My _testimony_ ," said Lafayette with an eyebrow wag and a smirk.

"That was not a euphemism, my dear, I'm entirely serious."

"You are entirely in bad 'umor," Lafayette retorted. "Why are you so upset?"

"I'm not," he said peevishly.

" _Oh, pardon, bien sur_ ," Lafayette mocked, "I shall 'ave to remember zat zis is 'ow you look when you are _not_ upset."

Alexander reddened and glared straight ahead. Laurens and Tilghman drew even with the two British delegates. They all dismounted. 

"Alexandre, you are too tense," Lafayette continued once it was clear the two aides were not going to be taken prisoner or shot. "I fear you're going to explode, hein?"

The Marquis was right. He hadn't even been aware of the tension growing within him, the way he'd grown unreasonably snappish with his dear friends. He was not angry with them; he should not punish them with his frustrations. With great effort, Alexander took deep breaths and willed his shoulders to relax.

"I'm sorry, my dear," he said sincerely. "I just wish this business to conclude, preferably with Tench and John safe back on this side of the field, so that we may get back to our real purpose."

Lafayette regarded him thoughtfully for several seconds. Alexander had the impression that the other was debating whether to press for a deeper explanation. Either he decided this was not the time and place, or he determined to let Alexander's statement stand. It didn't matter; they could both tell that wasn't the whole reason he'd been growing more irritable. 

"Per'aps we ought to find you some pretty maid to tumble," he said dryly. 

It had the right effect; Alexander chortled. "Something like that," he agreed. But his smile lingered while Tilghman and Laurens rode back to the group.

"Well?" they asked Laurens as they turned around and headed back to headquarters.

"Laurens was brilliant," Tilghman announced. "Tell them, man."

"The British Colonel took Lila and asked, 'Is that all?'" Laurens reported. "I said 'Unless General Howe would care to surrender, we have nothing else to discuss, I think.'"

That raised a laugh from all of them. Even Alexander felt his mood lighten.

Laurens, meanwhile, had nudged his horse onto Lafayette's other side. "There, my dears, we are quit of mistress Lila. Does that please you, Hammie?"

Alexander's smile faded. He realized belatedly that he should not have opened himself to teasing. Ever since the dog had appeared, he'd been out of sorts. Laurens had doted on the thing all last night. He'd even offered to let her sleep at the foot of his bedroll, but Washington had claimed that right for himself. "It's been some time since I've seen any of mine," he had commented at supper, where the pooch had been allowed to wander under the table. "Perhaps I'll ask Martha to bring one or two when we move to winter quarters." Alexander prayed she would refuse to do it.

"I'm pleased that we can go back to proper work," he said aloud, trying to keep his voice neutral.

Lafayette and Laurens exchanged a glance. "Alex," said Lafayette carefully, "could it be zat you 'ad a dog zat died?" 

It was a reasonable guess, especially given the nugget of information he had accidentally divulged that night in the stables at Birmingham. For a moment, he considered lying, conjuring a tragic tale of some beloved terrier or retriever that had been his boon companion, and how the poor thing's death in a hunting accident or similar had broken his heart and made him forswear the adoption of any other of its species. 

But then he thought better of the tall tale. For one thing, it was too likely that both Lafayette and Laurens _had_ been given dogs when they were boys, and yet they were not so traumatized as to reject their temporary mascot. Besides, opening up about something as simple as a childhood pet might encourage still more impertinent questions. Even with the two of them, he was reticent about sharing such details. He didn't wish to start another quarrel with either or both of them, besides, and certainly not over something so trivial as a stupid damn dog.

"No," he said at last, and did not elaborate. With another sidelong glance at each other, and a shrug from Lafayette, they mercifully dropped the subject.

~

He should have known it was a temporary reprieve. The dog remained a topic of conversation among the family even after they moved to new headquarters. Three days after the exchange, during a grueling session with Washington's correspondence, including another excruciatingly polite ( _too_ polite) draft back to Gates, as well as a letter begging Newcomb to move some of his troops, the lads were still talking about it. 

"Enough, all of you," said Laurens, darting a glance at Hamilton, who bored his eyes into Laurens for a moment before pointedly returning to his work. "Though it may be the key to Hammie's impenetrable past," Laurens continued a minute later in a thoughtful, mock-helpful tone. 

"Laurens, have you some intelligence to share?" Gibbs queried. "He is our only man of mystery, after all. Have you solved the riddle?"

"It really quite simple," laughed Tilghman. "Everyone knows the answer. For what is a Little Lion but a cat? And cats and dogs, of course…."

"Oh, for God's sake," Hamilton snapped. "Will you all desist?"

McHenry started to giggle. "Are you asking us to let sleeping dogs lie, Ham?"

It was too ridiculous a pun and it took the starch out of his bruised pride. "Mac, you wouldn't know a lying bitch if she slept in your own arms," he retorted instead. Mac balled up a piece of parchment and tossed it at him; an effective, if not eloquent, response. Tilghman helpfully inquired whether that explained Mac's most recent love affair, earning another round of appreciation.

"All of you, give over," Harrison said, finally, imposing order as the eldest among them. "We are here to work, gentlemen, not nettle each other."

The rebuke settled them all back down, but Hamilton wondered how long it would take before the point of contention would "dog" him again. 

That evening, he called on Lafayette at the Major General's rented room, reviewing the account they would give in Stephen's trial. More precisely, he had been coaching Lafayette, and Lafayette had been trying to take advantage of their relative privacy.

"Will you be sensible?" Alexander grumbled. "The court-martial begins tomorrow. We have to go over this."

"Alexandre, it's fine. I only need to tell what I observed. I know you're 'appy to 'ave a chance to exercise your legal education, but, _enfin_ , my dear. Sink of ze more enjoyable sings we could do wiz zis time, hein?" As if to demonstrate, he stepped forward and closed his mouth over Alexander's.

As always, the kiss enflamed his desire, and he felt the corresponding proof engorge his cock. Gilbert's tongue darted into his mouth, and the sensation drove away his annoyance at the state of the army, Washington's irritability, the conflicting demands of the brigadiers, Congress, etc., etc. Even Laurens' earlier ribbing ceased to matter. The world fell away. This embrace could be enough to sustain him--almost.

Lafayette untied his cravat, still kissing him. The relief of cool air on his neck was replaced by feathery kisses at the juncture of his jaw and throat. He sighed with contentment as Lafayette worked his way down into the opening of his shirt, then back up to capture his mouth again. He tossed aside his notes and grabbed at Lafayette's flies. 

"Quickly, quickly," he admonished when they broke apart to concentrate on unbuttoning and untucking and unmanning each other. "Fuck me. Please. I want to feel--"

"Yes, _avec plaisir_ ," Gilbert assured him. 

Alexander turned away and set one knee on the narrow bed. He felt Gilbert's wet finger first and expelled a few short breaths to bear the pressure. Gilbert made rapid progress, adding a second and third finger and working Alexander open expertly. Then he was nudging at Alexander's hole with an altogether more desirable part of his anatomy. 

The feeling of being too full, of needing to push back against the invading, hot, stiff flesh, of friction and pleasure that was just this side of pain, brought Alexander nearly to tears. Gilbert reached around to add his hand to Alexander's own, wrapped their fingers together around his erection, and they pulsed together in a rhythm both frantic and natural. Alexander tried not to imagine it ever ending. Throughout their rutting passion, he was struck again and again by the thought that his friend cared for him as intensely as he did for Gilbert. He thought of the quip Lafayette had made about finding Alexander a woman, and whether it might not be a wise thing to divide his attention so that he did not fall so in love with Lafayette that no female companionship would ever leave him satisfied. 

Then he didn't think about anything at all.

~

About an hour later, Alexander crept into the farmhouse they were now all sharing. The Wampole house was less than half the size of their previous headquarters, the Keely house, and to fit everyone in one building, the aides were all sharing the one large bedroom upstairs. They had moved the large bed itself down to the parlor, which the General used as both office and sleeping quarters. He had meant only to drop off his notes and take his book down to the dining room that doubled as their workroom, but as he rose from his rucksack, Laurens was standing before him. 

"Feeling better?" he asked. 

"Yes, I'm--fine," Alexander said, honestly. "I'm sorry if I was short with you earlier, my dear Laurens. I've just been….a touch overworked." He grimaced when he realized that Laurens might take that amiss. With McHenry's approval, Laurens had been allowed to remove the sling, but he was still only allowed to write one hour in four. Alexander had been the one to pick up most of the slack.

"We've all been on tenterhooks," Laurens agreed. "It's no trouble. I was out of sorts, myself; you see, Major White died yesterday. I'd just run across his name on the report."

Alexander's sympathy rose quickly. "I'm sorry, John. He was a friend of yours, wasn't he."

"We crossed together from England," said Laurens with a mournful smile. Clearing his throat, he asked, "Will the Marquis be ready for tomorrow?"

"I think so. He seems confident enough." He paused. Laurens remained planted between him and the door. "I was--His Excellency has given us the evening; I was going to go downstairs and read for a while before turning in."

He didn't think he could be more obvious about his desire to pass, but Laurens instead shut the door, cutting off his escape. "Ham...are you angry with me?" he asked plaintively.

"What--no! Of course not. Not at all."

"It's only that ever since the day of my promotion, you've been…."

"I could not be happier for you about that," Alexander protested. "You deserve it, entirely."

"That's good to hear, but I meant--the matter of the dog. And the boys who brought her to us. I--I realized I asked you some rather personal questions over that affair." He stepped closer. "I...I ought not to have teased you--then or today. It just seems so incredible to me that a young boy would not want a dog."

James had been the one who'd wanted a dog, Alexander remembered. Wanted one so badly he'd begged and pleaded for over a year. Even though he was only about five at the time, somehow, Alexander had known that they just couldn't afford an animal for which they had no use. He'd promised himself never to ask for anything so frivolous. It was hard enough to earn Father's attention next to James; he knew without anyone telling him that it would be worse if he clamored for notice by way of troublesome, impossible requests.

Then later, of course, there'd been no time for play or even leisure, really. There was always some task to complete, and no alternative but to do what it took to survive.

That had not been Laurens' experience, surely. But again, he told himself, they were not engaged in some bizarre comparison of whose upbringing had been more harrowing. And Laurens had no shortage of personal tragedies, he knew. He tried to shrug the whole thing aside.

"If I was annoyed, Laurens, it was only with the waste of time required to restore the animal to its owner--not with you or the others for falling prey to its...charms. But it's done now, can we not move forward?"

"I hope so," said Laurens, "but there's something I--if you'll permit me to say it. I do owe you an apology. It occurred to me that you might have been cross because, whether or not you ever wanted a dog, maybe you resent not having had the opportunity to raise one. I was insensitive about that and too...condescending toward you. I believe I was unwittingly flaunting the privileges of my upbringing."

Alexander sighed. It was exactly the sort of pity he did not want, especially from a good friend. "Laurens. Pray, don't fret about it. I accept your apology, if it helps you. But if you persist in feeling sorry for yourself, or for me, for--whatever it is that has you tying yourself into knots, then I will grow cross with you in truth. Agreed?"

Laurens grinned. "It's a bargain. I promise I'll never imagine you an object for pity--but I cannot swear that I won't sympathize, my dear, for if you feel pain, then I feel it too, on your behalf. Not because I think myself so lofty in comparison, but just for your own sake." 

It was more consideration than he was used to, and still a touch condescending, but the care in Laurens' voice made Alexander feel a warmth in his heart. Matter-of-factly he said, "Well, I don't feel any pain about never having had a dog. All right?" Thinking the matter settled, he nodded and made to step around him to leave. 

Laurens held up his hand. "Please--if you'll indulge me, there's one more apology I owe you, Ham. A far greater offense. I fear somehow I've…. I've been treating you unfairly."

That didn't track, and Alexander said so. "How can that possibly be?"

"I…. It hasn't failed my notice that you and the Marquis have been….closer than ever, for several weeks now. Since before Brandywine. I must admit that I've been at a loss as to what you might have experienced together that would cause you two to pull together, and omit me. But that's not the point. You know that while you were in Philadelphia, my father and I removed the Marquis to Lancaster for further recuperation in a comfortable environment?"

"Yes, and I'm grateful, as I'm sure is he. It greatly sped his recovery."

"Well, at that time, I tried to gauge whether the change was in both of you, or just you--I can honestly say that I detected no want of closeness between myself and the Marquis on that occasion, so I must conclude that it's only your affections which have altered. Something's brought you closer to him, and outstripped your regard for me, and that's the way it is. But I fear I've been blaming you for it, and that's wrong. It's not chivalrous to give my jealousy any dominion over my heart. And I realize that I won't endear you to me further by trying to press you into paying me more attention. I think I know the cause for your withdrawal, and I wish to...to assure you that you will have no reason for complaint. So, I--I will endeavor to respect the limitations you place on our friendship."

"Limits on--" Alexander stammered. "Laurens. Nothing could induce me to alter or diminish my regard for you! I--I have from the first upheld you as a paragon of valor and everything that is admirable. You say you think you know when things changed. Might you--is it possible you are referring to the day I returned to camp after firing the mills?"

Laurens only nodded, looking away. 

"But, John, you're mistaken. Your delight at seeing me return from Schuykill was a bulwark for me--I--" He drew a steadying breath. _Careful_ , he said to himself. "Let me direct you to examine that day. When Captain Lee reported my death, did His Excellency ask you to...to notify anyone?"

Laurens' eyes narrowed. "I asked His Excellency, actually, whether there were anyone we ought to inform."

Alexander nodded. "I'm not surprised. And I expect no one knew where to send word or who might care."

His bluntness made Laurens' face fill with pity, which made him redden, so he moved on quickly before he could get angry. "I'm not casting blame, my dear," he assured the other. "I've shielded my background with good reasons. In fact I'm somewhat surprised more of my circumstances aren't known, one way or another."

"Well. I know what Tench said he found out about you before the General asked you to join him. You came to New Jersey from the West Indies; you were later enrolled at King's College, where you joined the New York militia and rose to Captain. There were…" he hesitated, so Alexander nodded his permission to continue. "There were rumors that you're an orphan, or at any rate a charity case from your original community. And...rumors that you were abandoned because you were...illegitimate." He drew a breath and continued in a rush, "But believe me, none of that bears any significance to me compared to the exemplary individual I have found you to be."

"Thank you," Alexander acknowledged. "I never supposed that it did." He sighed and found a perch on the settle they'd had to move upstairs to make room for Washington's bed downstairs. Laurens drifted over to sit as well--not right next to him, to give him some distance, but on the edge of the end with no arm. "I never...I never talk about my background, because I know that there are too many people in the world who would assign it undue significance, rather than weigh my deeds and accomplishments on their own merits. I know, you are not such a man, but it's a--habit I have strictly enforced. Even if you cannot be induced to revise your opinion of me, and I doubt that it is as impossible as you claim, the circumstances of my youth would, I am sure, elicit your pity, and I have no wish to make myself seem wretched or pathetic to you--or anyone else. But, as to your conviction that I've trusted Lafayette over you, you're wrong. I can assure you that he's had no more disclosure from me about my past than you. We do not whisper boyhood stories in each other's ears." He blushed a bit; he was skirting a little too close to what they did whisper.

Laurens smiled. "I grant that my imagination may have invented secrets where none exist. That doesn't change my point. Whatever the reason, you're simply closer to him than to me; I must accept that, and not expect a monopoly on your affection. That doesn't mean you don't regard me, or that he doesn't, or even that we can't all continue to be the best of comrades and brothers."

"No, I sincerely hope not. But, Laurens, I hate you to think that I value you in any way less than the Marquis. He and I have been...thrown together, it's true. I mention the false report of my death, because I could have guessed that you, of all men, would have cared enough to wonder whether anyone else needed to hear about my passing. I was deeply-- _deeply_ \--moved by your relief when you saw me in the flesh." He weighed the risks and decided to push his luck. If Lafayette was right...if Laurens really was "one of them" as he'd put it...perhaps Laurens would not reject him. Perhaps when Laurens said nothing could lessen his opinion of Alexander, he meant it as a signal. So he plunged on, "I've made other friends in my life, some of whom I flatter myself may remain so for years to come, but...there is no one I value more than you. And no one whose regard means more to me." He edged a little closer. "What can I do, my dear John, to convince you that I love you?"

Laurens took in a sharp breath. "I--I believe it," he said, looking stricken. "But I'm not sure I deserve it."

"Why should you not?" Alexander asked him, inching toward him. He wasn't sure what he would do, but he was sure there was nothing he would _not_ do, if it meant he could ease whatever was causing Laurens to suffer.

"May I tell you something, in strictest confidence?" Laurens asked.

"Yes, of course," Alexander promised. 

"That day, when you came back--when I thought you were a ghost--I--I was so happy to see you…."

"Yes, I remember. That's my point--"

"No. No, listen. I was so happy that I--I embarrassed myself. I allowed my--weakness--to rule me." Laurens backed up to reestablish the same distance that had been between them before. He appeared to be in some distress. His fists were clenched against his knees.

Alexander halted his progress. He was making John uncomfortable; he had to back off. "What weakness, John? You can be forgiven for your relief. It's I who overstepped."

"You aren't the one who initiated--that is." He steadied his breath and forced his hands to open, draped them on his thighs. "I know we agreed never to speak of it but--I kissed you."

"You were overcome. I don't count that a weakness," said Alexander quickly. But Laurens' eyes were brimming and he shook his head with vehemence.

"It is, it is weakness when--when I--" In a sudden, somewhat convulsive moment, Laurens launched over the gap between them and pressed his lips to Alexander's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Alexander's just a girl who can't say No....
> 
> French Translations:  
> pardon, bien sur - excuse me, of course  
> enfin - enough  
> avec plaisir - with pleasure
> 
> The anecdote of the dog in this chapter is REAL. I even put Alexander into it before I discovered that he wrote the note (and that's the real text, including the strike-through text. Oh, Alex, you and your decision-making fu). If anyone out there is a fanartist or knows one, I would DEARLY love artwork of Laurens and GWash going nuts over the dog, while Alex stands there looking skyward thinking, "Give me strength...." It just makes me giggle. 
> 
> Thanks for waiting for this update! I'm hard at work on Chapter 13 so that you'll get the continuation as soon as possible!


	11. Lesson Number 11: A Consummation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! And Inernational Fanworks Day! Have some pr0n. And schmoop. And romance. And angst. So, kinda like real life?
> 
> Major Historical Inaccuracy Alert: Stephen's court-martial actually took place in November, 1777, and took 17 days to conclude. His discharge likely did not happen right away, either. But hey, if LMM can move Monmouth and other major historical events, then so can I, in service of Drama and Romance. Yeah. That's how I'm playing it.

There could be no doubt, this time, how Laurens intended his action. Where his earlier kiss had been chaste, this one was hard, open-lipped, nearly crushing in its passion. Hamilton didn't hesitate; he abandoned all restraint as he leaned in to Laurens, deepened the kiss with tongue and teeth, and brought his hand up to cradle the back of Laurens' head and pull him even closer. His other arm circled Laurens' waist, careful of the shoulder that was still bandaged under his coat. Laurens' hands clenched. Then, emitting a high-pitched moan in the back of his throat, he reached forward inside Alexander's coat to grip his sash. Panting, they broke the kiss.

"You're not weak," Alexander croaked. "You're not weak, John, or if you are, I am, too."

Laurens grunted skeptically. "If you heard my father tell it--"

"Well, I have the luxury of not having to listen to your father on this score," Alexander cut him off. He took Laurens' hands in his own and kissed the fingers. "You are everything that is good and commendable. You're brave, and kind, and fierce and beautiful. Think of the Greeks," he went on quickly. "Damon and Pythias, Achilles and Patroclus--even Hephaestion and another Alexander," he added, blushing, "though by no means am I equal to that one in prowess or nobility. But you have in abundance all the qualities that make those heroes renowned, and I tell you there is no flaw." He moved in again and stole another kiss, which Laurens ate up hungrily.

"I--when I kissed you I thought you were repulsed," he said when he pulled back enough to speak. 

"No, my dearest, I wanted to return your token--indeed, I had started to do so, and I thought it was _you_ who had detected and rejected my purpose." 

They smiled at each other like boys planning a grand adventure. "Bless you, Alexander," said Laurens after a moment. He embraced Alexander again, but stilled suddenly. "I--I don't….I mean, how do we--I've never--"

Alexander nodded quickly. "I know. It's all right, I can show you." 

He didn't care that barely more than an hour ago, he'd been buggered by Lafayette, that he was still a little sore and stretched. He didn't care that Lafayette had their dwindling supply of oil, or that Lafayette had guided him through the steps with almost romantic consideration and that he ought to induct Laurens with at least as much tenderness. He cared only about two things: Whether Laurens was well enough to proceed, and whether the lads might come back and discover them.

"Where are the others?" he asked.

"They went into town," Laurens answered. "You were visiting the Marquis; I stayed behind thinking I might catch you alone when you got back. Even Gimat and duBuysson are gone."

"Convenient," Alexander laughed. "How do you feel?"

Laurens shrugged both shoulders and winced. "Well enough that I keep forgetting not to use this arm too much," he insisted. But Alexander shook his head. 

"No, we can't risk anything that hurts you. Apart from the obvious ill effect, someone else might hear and come running." 

"If you're proposing what I think, dear boy, we'll never have a better chance, my shoulder be hanged."

Alexander kissed him again. "See? Brave and valorous, my Hephaestion."

"Oh, shut up," Laurens said, laughing. He swatted Alexander's arm. "Get a move on, will you, before I lose my nerve."

Alexander bolted the door; they'd have to unlock it when they were done but for now, the slight risk someone would try to come in was outweighed by the additional protection the bolt offered. "We'll just be very quiet," he promised, returning to the chaise. "And--we'd better use the floor. If anyone hears this thing creak…"

"Right," Laurens agreed. The bedrolls were on the far end of the room, by the fire. So far they had all rolled them out each night and piled them up each day to give them room to move; yesterday, they drew lots for the more comfortable sofa and likely would again each day they stayed. Alexander rolled out two now, in front of the fire.

He came back and helped Laurens shuck his boots, then carefully pulled off Laurens' coat. Laurens removed his sash and unpinned his cravat, while Alexander took off his own outer vestments. Laurens could manage buttons, but Alexander selfishly wanted to strip him so that he could worship every inch of skin as it was revealed. He moved in and put his hand over Laurens'.

"Let me," he whispered, voice thick with anticipation. Piece by piece, he disrobed them both. When he had shed one of Laurens' garments, he took off as much of his own, so that waistcoats, neckcloths, shirts, stockings, and finally breeches and braes all lay strewn about the room. Then Alexander eased Laurens down to their knees on the bedroll. With infinite care, he guided Laurens to caress and possess him. 

"You've never done this, and between that and your arm, we'll make this easy. You'll be the inserter, and I the receiver," he told Laurens between kisses and pets and delicious tastes of each other's bodies. He was trying to remember everything Lafayette had done and said in their first nights together. Still a novice himself, he had to play the part of a master. Laurens was an apt student, though, and took to the process naturally--if anything, with better and more avid finesse than Alexander probably had had in his first encounter with Lafayette. It was hard for him to believe that was barely two months ago; he wondered how he had lived 22 ½ years without the knowledge or experience of making love to another man. 

And as grateful as he was--would always be--to Lafayette for introducing him to the connubial pleasures of the Greeks, fucking or being fucked by the Marquis was almost impossible to compare to coupling with Laurens. His entire being seemed to sing his name: Laurens, Laurens, Laurens! over and over, until it drowned out all other concerns. For his part, Laurens seemed to come alive in a way Alexander had only ever seen when the man had taken his life in his hands. He clung to Alexander's waist, draped over his back, pounding and pounding as if he would die without the motion. Alexander closed his eyes and pushed out to meet Laurens's thrusts. He whispered encouragement and instruction, liberally with one, sparing with the other. After several minutes during which Laurens would increase his pace, remember to ease up, and then grow more frantic again, Alexander heard a different sort of hitch in Laurens' breath. He felt something warm drip onto on his shoulder blades: Laurens' tears, he realized. Resisting the urge to stop and ask if Laurens was all right, Alexander reached behind his back to caress Laurens' ass-cheek. As he gripped it in appreciation, he breathed, "Oh, my Achilles, yes," and Laurens reached orgasm; Alexander felt the hot juice deep inside him, felt his lover convulse and stifle his scream of pleasure. Alexander tightened his muscles around Laurens. He whispered more words of praise and gratitude and comfort. Laurens sobbed silently and ejaculated his last drops with a frisson of relief. The motion of his hips stilled; he laid, panting, on Alexander's bowed back. Alexander squeezed him again, hand to arse and body around his shaft, and relaxed. Then he leaned foward, stretching his arms in front of him. He dipped one hand underneath himself to position his cock and balls more comfortably, but eventually, he laid on his stomach, arms tucked in, with Laurens still draped on top of him, his head resting on Alexander's shoulder.

"I never...knew…." Laurens murmured a few moments later, sounding awestruck. "Never…."

"Are you all right?" Alexander asked, his question muffled by the bedroll under his cheek.

"I don't think I can move," Laurens admitted. 

Alexander chuckled. "You don't have to--yet," he said. But even as he said it, he felt Laurens tense his thighs and place his good hand on the floor. A moment later, Laurens pulled himself up. His cock eased out of Alexander's arse and Alex sighed at the coolness of air against the liquid emissions. He would have to clean himself before he sat up, he realized. 

Meanwhile, Laurens flipped onto his back and laid so that their left sides touched from shoulder to ankle. He lazily stroked the back of his finger along Alexander's spine. "Are _you_ all right?" he asked.

Alexander nodded, then turned his right cheek downward, so that he could look into Laurens' eyes. "Better than all right. I love you," he said, his throat feeling raw, as if he might weep as well.

"Love," he repeated, as if to test the concept. "Yes. I do. I love you, too, dear boy." He leaned his head in to steal a quick kiss. "I think I've loved you since I met you. I just--tried so hard not to--"

"I know." Alexander frowned. "The world abhors a sodomite," he said flatly. It was brutal, but it was true; he regretted, however, the wince it produced in Laurens.

"Oh, God. We are, aren't we. It's a sin," Laurens pronounced. "We're sinners."

"Perhaps. But satisfied ones," Alexander offered. "Or, well--I hope..?"

"I've never known such satisfaction, my dear," Laurens assured him. "But--that does not improve our situation. We ought to repent before God." He paused. "Just this moment I can't, though."

"I've thought about that," Alexander said with honesty. "Sometimes, I think God must not want anyone to be happy for long. I don't think that's a very good model, do you? I mean...if you think about it, it's ruling by fear." He stretched and crossed his arms under his chin, prolonging the moment when he would have to clean the trickle of semen and blood between his legs, wondering if his erection would settle on its own or if he would have to masturbate or if Laurens would consent to touch him. "I would far rather worship a God who made us love one another and Him without an expectation that we should deprive ourselves bliss as proof of our devotion."

"A sodomite _and_ a blasphemer," Laurens teased in mock horror. "Alexander Hamilton, for shame."

"Shame is for the guilty, John Laurens," he retorted, "and like you, I cannot think why we ought to feel sorry for finding one another in this wreck of a war."

"Do you really think so?" asked John.

"I do. If it takes fighting in this war--hell, if it took everything that's happened to me in my entire life to bring me to this moment, to be here with you--then I say it has been worth it."

Laurens said nothing, and Alexander wondered if he'd gone too far. But the hand on his back continued to rub lightly, making his flesh tingle in a pleasant sort of comfort. He put his head down again and let his eyes drift closed, arching into the touch. The lazy strokes relaxed him like little else. He slipped into a doze….

> _"We've raised enough to send you to America, my boy," Reverend Knox said, beaming._
> 
> _Alexander stared, dumbfounded, at the group of elders assembled in Knox's rectory. "America? I don't understand. Surely there are others on the island whose need for charity exceeds--"_
> 
> _"This was a special collection. Your account moved many to kindness. Talent like yours deserves-- _needs_ \--to be cultivated. Your sponsors were quite adamant that the best thing for you is to send you to university. We've decided you'll go to New Jersey. I'll make arrangements with contacts of mine there for you to get a formal education."_
> 
> _"I--don't know what to say, sir."_
> 
> _"Say you'll return with my Ned and give this island two qualified physicians," Mr. Stevens said. "I've also spoken to Cruger and Kortright; they've agreed to give you an allowance that should pay your expenses. Call it a reward for loyal and meritorious service."_
> 
> _"That's very...generous. I'm…. Forgive me, I'm astonished."_
> 
> _They all chuckled and Alexander blushed. "That's to be expected, young man. Don't waste this opportunity," said Knox._
> 
> _"No, I shan't," he promised._
> 
> _He could barely believe it. Hours later it still hadn't sunk in. When it finally occurred to him to go tell James, it was getting late, but the carpenter's shop was still lit up by candles and lanterns. James had been right when he'd commented to Alexander that business would pick up as soon as the first shipments of lumber could arrive; people desperately needed to rebuild._
> 
> _James had been happy for him, if a little stiff about it. He chucked him on the chin and nodded, and looked so like Father that Alexander's heart hurt. At the end of their brief meeting, quite abruptly, James pulled him into an affectionate hug. "I'm proud of you, brother," he said, running a hand a few times up and down his spine. "I told you it would all work out, and there's nothing wrong with you. See? You're meant for better things than clerking, Alexander."_

"Alexander?"

After several minutes of floating in a drowsy happiness, he heard John say his name.

"Alexander? We'd better dress."

"You're right," he said, coming back to consciousness with dismay. He became aware of the chill in the room, the absence of John's warm hand, but in place of a congealing mess in his nethers, he felt cool and clean. He rolled onto his side; Laurens held up a stained cloth. "I--noticed a little blood. I did hurt you," he said guiltily.

"Not much. Anyway, it's worth it. I could have washed myself--"

"Least I could do," said John diffidently. "I'll put this in my laundry," he offered. "Shrewsbury won't ask questions."

Alexander raised an eyebrow, but didn't refute Laurens regarding his bodyman's discretion. They put on their nightshirts and braes, hung their jackets and carefully put away their other clothes. Then they straightened the room. 

"I thought we'd just offer to use that bedroll tonight?" John proposed. "That way no one else will notice its condition."

"Good thinking," said Alexander. He claimed another kiss. "Besides, if I can't hold you all night I might go mad." John beamed at him. "But first, nature calls." Alexander put on his boots and threw John's cloak over his shoulders in order to go to the privy. 

They unlocked the door just as they heard the other aides clattering into the house, singing a drinking song and then admonishing each other to be quiet. 

~

It came as no surprise to anyone that General Stephen's court-martial found him guilty. The hearing lasted one day. 

Hamilton tried to catch Lafayette alone half a dozen times, but there was no opportunity. When the tribunal returned the verdict, General Washington announced that he would be recommending the French Major-General to take charge of General Stephen's division and that Stephen himself would be cashiered out of service. Lafayette stood in shock as Stephen's sword was taken from him, his epaulets and stars were torn from his coat, and his own aide, who had escaped flogging only by flagrantly denouncing his commanding officer, stepped on his cap.

"He deserves the humiliation," Hamilton whispered to the other.

"I don't disagree, only...I did not expect to be given 'is command. If it 'appens, I want zat aide transferred, 'owever. Captain Willis."

"Agreed," Hamilton said with an appraising frown. He believed the Captain a relatively competent officer, and Stephen the most odious of men, but the aide had fanned the flames of his General's downfall with the fervor of a blatant opportunist. He could not blame Lafayette in the slightest for wanting Willis as far from him as possible. Perhaps Putnam could use him. 

Other officers were crowding around Lafayette to congratulate him, including General Greene. Hamilton stood to the side with Gimat and duBuysson, chatting in French, as the room emptied. "A tavern!" Gimat proposed when most of the crowd had gone. "We must celebrate."

" _S'il vous plaît, non,_ " Lafayette told them, holding up a hand. " _I won't exalt that my command comes at the cost of another's dishonor. Anyway, it hasn't even happened yet._ "

" _Nonsense,_ " Hamilton told him. " _Stephen's conduct lost him his command; if you're confirmed, you will have earned yours by your own talent for leadership._ "

" _Vraiment!_ " the other two cheered. 

"Listen to 'Amilton, _mon Seigneur_ ," duBuysson added. "'E 'as it."

"Maybe, but I don' sink it right to make merry jus' yet," Lafayette held. He caught Hamilton's eye, who nodded approvingly. With a pang, Hamilton also understood another part of his hesitation. In command and under General Greene, it was likely that Lafayette would be called to divide himself from headquarters more often.

To be fair, it probably would be Hamilton, not Lafayette, who would be sent on a mission first. But not yet. The primary goal at present was to track Howe and prevent him securing the corridor between Philadelphia and New York, and for that, they needed Gates to keep Howe's reinforcements in Canada from joining him. While he had been in Philadelphia, Hamilton had missed the reports that a large British detachment was heading directly for Gates' position; the General had been waiting word for over two weeks as to the outcome of the battle. Just after Hamilton got back, a few days before Germantown, they learned that Gates had managed a standoff, but the situation was still highly unpredictable. With the British in possession of New York and Philadelphia, the Continental couriers had the devil of a time bringing messages south through New Jersey. The lack of information was crippling the southern army, however. More worrisome still was the fact that Gates had begun sending his letters to Governor Clinton and John Hancock directly, rather than to Washington, and leaving it to them to relay the reports. Daily, Hamilton anticipated the order to ride his carcase up to Albany himself, just to bring Washington back a reliable assessment.

In the meantime, Hamilton had another problem. Somehow he had to find a way to tell Lafayette about Laurens--and possibly, Laurens about Lafayette--and keep them all on speaking terms.

Before he could decide just how to go about it, though, he figured that he had better know what he wanted. In many ways, he thought that Gilbert would be the easier of the two to manage, since Lafayette was already married. Moreover, he knew Lafayette was devoted to his Adrienne. He looked forward to his eventual return to France; the Marquis had more than once candidly mentioned his plans for reform. Hamilton loved Lafayette, certainly, and had no wish to hurt or offend him. But from the beginning, there was no question that their affair was temporary and driven by expedience. Well, expedience and affection, but still, it had a foreseeable end point. Alexander just wasn't sure whether he wanted that end to come _now_.

On the other hand, he had initiated Laurens into their faction, and he felt responsible, in a way, for helping to guide him through the confusing and exhilarating "firsts" that lay ahead. He was the worst kind of hypocrite, considering that he could barely be called experienced and had nothing even near to all the answers, and here he was presuming to act as Laurens' mentor as well as his partner. But he had started Laurens down the path and it would have been churlish to ignore him when he must be going through something like Hamilton's own revelations. 

His feeling of guardianship was a distant second to more personal sentiment, though. Now that he had confirmed Laurens' feelings for him, he felt overpowered by his own love. He was in love with Laurens as he had never been in love with anyone before--man or woman--and yes, that included Lafayette. He wasn't just curious about the sensations of sex, or even pleased by the act when committed with his friend; no, he was passionately, violently possessed by the desire to be with him. When the two of them had parted at the beginning of the day, Hamilton had felt his heart ache. At various points during the court-martial, he found himself wondering what John was doing, which letter or order he was transcribing. He imagined John's strong, slender hands creating their elegant swirls on the page, the way he would occasionally loop back around to connect a "d" with an "o" or use its tail to cross a "t." He thought that he had never seen anything as beautiful as John's script. Except perhaps for John's eyes. Or John's cheekbones. Or his entire body. Or his….

Then he had to cross his arms over his lap and refocus on the court proceedings until he could trust his own flesh not to betray him.

Even when they'd spent an extravagant five days in the wilderness, able to make love unfettered, Hamilton had not mooned over Lafayette so girlishly. It was almost laughable to think he'd feared that Gilbert would supplant all others, now that he had so much more love in him for Laurens. He was in far too deep, and he barely cared. He had to assert control over himself. But he couldn't help it: Loving John, and feeling that particular affection returned in kind, had been the single most blessed moment of his life. He desperately wanted to feel it again, and every day, forever. 

He wondered what else he might give up, if it meant he and John could spend their days in each other's company and their nights in each other's arms. Oh, it was an impossible dream, of course. Eventually John would marry. Some Charleston belle, probably, or perhaps one of Philadelphia's daughters in an act of diplomacy to cement the alliance of northern and southern states. It would be wise if Hamilton could find a bride who would bring her own advantages to bolster his hope for success. If they survived the war, and won, he would have to go back to New York to finish his study of law. Laurens had responsibilities to his father and their plantation and probably all of South Carolina. He would surely take up a position in Congress, in time, or maybe get in line for the Governorship or some other major form of civil service. John's future was dictated for him clearly, even as Alexander's was nebulous and opaque. Whatever time they might have, it would have to be here, under the cloak of the army. Which also made it unbelievably dangerous.

But to maximize his intimacy with John, he would have to put Lafayette aside. He didn't want the Marquis to feel slighted or ill-used, and he didn't want Lafayette to have grounds to accuse him and Laurens, as Laurens had, of shutting him out of their trio, strengthening their bond with each other at the expense of their connection to him. Was that inevitable, though? It had been less than a day, and already Alexander felt his love for Laurens multiplying by factors, expanding so much in his breast that he feared his ribcage might burst forth from his chest. It wasn't possible for a person to contain so much love. 

He cared about Gilbert, enjoyed Gilbert, but could he truly claim to love Gilbert with that level of fervor? Did he feel his soul sing when Lafayette held him close?

He didn't know what to do, but as Lafayette waited out his admirers and summoned Alexander back over with just his eyes, Alexander felt powerless to refuse. Here was someone else who valued him, who saw him, and how could he deny himself the comfort that it brought? Waves of guilt and gratitude passed over him--how could he be so ungrateful as to reject the Marquis? How could he spurn the love and affection that Lafayette offered? He couldn't say no to it.

He prayed the Lord might show him how to say no.

~

Hamilton was at the trial, so Laurens received the mail satchel and brought it into the house to sort it. He was not surprised to find a thick packet from his father among the dispatches and correspondence; there was also a letter for Lafayette and several others for the French officers in his service. He set his father's bundle aside at first, resolving to attend to the official business before indulging his personal needs. After an hour, he found his hand trembling, his nerves jittering in expectation for what his father might have to say. He opened the outer paper and noted, with a shock, that the package contained a letter from Martha.

He drew his hand back as if the letter had burned him. Before he could stop himself, he was comparing his one encounter with her to the brief glimpse of heaven he had felt with Alexander the night before. His cheeks flushed with shame, because he knew he ought to have favored his union with Martha over the one with Alexander, but he couldn't force himself to prefer it. Time had not improved his recollections or the guilt he felt over the entire affair, and the way it had tied them together as a result….

~ 

It had started with a party just outside London. He'd seen there a young gentleman he'd met before--and who, upon being reintroduced to John, had made him blush with insipid, blatant jokes which amounted to barely veiled insinuations. The young man could not be called out for impudence, John knew--he was the younger son of some Earl or other and Laurens could not incite a quarrel which would have embarrassed his host and hostess, his uncle and aunt, and especially his father. So the youth's invitations had to be ignored. 

But as the evening wore on, John found himself watching the young man's every move. He fixated on the pouting mouth, the bright eyes, the spritely way he danced. The young man seemed to be tracking Laurens, too, and would occasionally and artfully brush past him on pretext of fetching punch for the ladies or greeting an acquaintance. Finally, on one such mission, the lad had used some cunning sleight-of-hand to slip a note into John's pocket. John ducked out to read it; the little card was unsigned, but entreated him to come to the library at half-past-midnight. 

John Laurens would do no such thing, of course. He sought out an empty room with the intention of burning the note. As he stood over the grate, however, he staid his hand. What would happen, he wondered, if he did go and meet the boy? He closed his eyes, imagining the embrace that might await him. He'd indulged similar thoughts before--at school, visiting friends, even once in London with Jemmy and Harry in the bed, fast asleep! Always, afterward, he expunged the fantasies and the feelings they evoked with hours of disciplined study and prayer. He would ride all day until he came home exhausted, or take long rambles through the parks and streets. He even tried fasting once--anything to purge the impure desires that enflamed him. He had taken scrupulous care, at school, never to let his gaze linger on another boy, never to look too closely as they dressed or undressed, never to brush past another the way this lordling had casually and calculatedly grazed him with his hip and arm, lest anyone take offense--or worse, take him up on the offer. But that night…. He knew very few people at that party, and the boy was unquestionably beautiful. If he hurried, he could find the library by the appointed time. His groin tightened at the very thought. He could go, now, before he changed his mind, just to see--just to know what it might be like.

But when he'd turned around, Martha Manning was standing before him. Mr. Manning was a close associate of John's Uncle James; throughout the season, John and Martha had been much thrown together at suppers and balls. He found he genuinely liked her wit and taste, though he tried to maintain a careful distance, like that of an elder brother. In that spirit, he'd offered to return her to the ballroom right away, before anyone noted their absense or connected the two of them together unchaperoned. Martha instead told him she'd seen him leave the hall, and had slipped her Mama, following him into the little parlor, expressly to snatch a moment with him alone. She had then proceeded to boldly profess how ardently she admired him, and that she hoped he would not find her declarations unseemly.

"I do find them--unusual," said John, but not unkindly. "Miss Manning, surely you don't want for suitors. You barely know me; I assure you if you did, you would not maintain your affections for long."

"Call me Martha, please. And I don't want suitors," she told him. "I just want you."

He stared into her eyes, guileless and searching. She wasn't beautiful, but rather average, and he didn't feel his chest throb or his loins twitch at the sight of her ample bosom high in her gown, or the slim waist cinched by her corsets. Physically, the most attractive thing about her, he thought, were her wrists and the curve of her chin. Though truthfully, he had never been moved by the most objectively fair of women, even if their waists were tiny or their faces perfectly formed. By contrast, he thought about the boy waiting in the library, about the frailty that had almost overpowered him, and the disgraceful behavior he had all but talked himself into exhibiting. He took her sudden appearance as a sign that God meant him to reject one path for the other. 

All the same, he couldn't allow her to destroy her reputation. He shook his head firmly. "We should go back, Miss Manning. I cannot escort you or they will know we have been together. If you will not go at once, then I shall have to leave first, but it would be safer if you returned to the party before I do."

"That's just why I love you, you know. Because you think of others before yourself. Oh, all right." She left, and there was no scandal, but from that day, John resolved to look out for her just as he would his sisters. She was impulsive, but a good girl nonetheless, and only needed guidance to keep her out of trouble. Thus he tried to assume a polite but not overly familiar manner with her. Still, he found he warmed to her spirit, even if her form held no allure for him.

That was not the end of things, of course. Toward the end of spring, Uncle James accepted an invitation to stay with the Mannings at their country house, and John could not find an excuse to remain in Town. Within days Martha found another opportunity to protest her ardent love, to insist that her fidelity had not been redirected by his rejection at the ball. Indeed, she had concluded that his chivalry guaranteed that he was the right man for her. John began to wonder if her unshakable faith might not be the perfect balm to his affliction, but still he held himself to a rigidly polite standard. He did not wish to encourage any hope that would only prove false.

The Mannings had also employed a groom, whom Laurens found attracted his eye every time he came into view. He grew more and more disgusted with himself, when his dreams insisted on conjuring dozens of images of the young groom and only a handful of Martha. He had steadily become desperate to prove to himself that he was not a degenerate, that he had the same drive toward family and duty that any other red-blooded man ought to have. When Martha found a way to sneak into his room one night, he had not resisted. Only once, when she had let down her pantalettes and made bold to touch his receding foreskin, did he pause. 

"You are making a terrible mistake," he told her, rolling away, "and as a man of honor I cannot allow you to compromise yourself this way."

"That's why I love you," she said, "because you would stop for my own good. But I want this, John."

"Martha, if I were to--violate you, it would be under false pretenses. Please do not ask what I mean, but I can't let you throw your life away for a wretch like me. What if I said I can't--won't--marry you?" he asked timorously.

Martha considered. "I still want this," she had said next. "I want _you_. You're not a wretch, and if you let me, I'll prove it to you." She reached for him. He recoiled out of reflex and instantly regretted the thoughtless reaction. Her face fell, but a moment later, she forced a smile. "Am I that hideous?" she asked.

"No--Martha, I'm--that was unforgivable. You're a dear girl. I assure you, it's only that I fear for your future. You haven't answered my question. What if I were a cad who refused to marry you?"

"You're no cad. Why are you so convinced that you are? But--" she sighed. "John...if you don't want to marry me, that's all right. It's not important. I promise no one will know the difference."

"But--"

"I fell from a horse when I was ten; I went over the saddlehorn," she admitted. "So it doesn't matter that I won't be a virgin on my wedding night." She sat back on her heels and looked into the bedroom fire. "If you don't want to marry me, I--I can live with that," she promised, suppressing a sniffle. "I know I'm not pretty, and that most of the suitors who would beg my hand are after my father's money more than my favor. But don't you see, that makes it even more important to me that you and I do this, John. You're tender and caring. You'll be gentle and you'll think of my pleasure, not just your own. And how can I be sure that my future husband will take such pains? I want to give myself to someone I care about, even if it's only once. Please. Please let me have this."

Her words moved him, and he felt a sort of pity that her situation might be so hopeless. It even made him love her and admire her bravery. He tried to be caring, but he had to admit to himself that it was his own desperation to feel normal, to prove that he _could_ make love to a woman, that got him through the act.

~

Of course, it had not worked out as either of them planned. Three months later it became clear that Martha's precautions (such as, "If I'm on top, I can't get pregnant") had been ineffective. They had to spin a story for her parents and his uncle (and through Uncle James, for his father) of a love match that rivaled Pyramus and Thisbe. Martha herself had told some of the more outrageous whoppers and winked at him afterward, and then apologized to him--when he was the one who owed her the apology. The wedding had been hastily arranged, and the child had followed four months later, by which time John was already preparing to sail for America and the revolution.

If she were lucky, he would die in the war. As a widow, she might remarry someone who could appreciate her properly. Oh, he had certainly come to love her, but...more as a sister and co-conspirator than as a man ought to love a wife. He wished the best for her, and he was certain that the best did not mean him.

As he scanned the other enclosures, he reflected that it had been a letter from his father, reaching him at the Mannings', that had convinced him he had to prove his manhood somehow. His father's light opprobria, his admonishments to John to keep his nose clean, had combined with lust for the stablehand into a perfect storm that practically drove him into Martha's embrace. Once again, his flaws betrayed him. It was a small wonder that he had been utterly helpless in the face of Alexander's adulation. The dear boy brought out more affection and love in him than anyone he'd ever known. Just thinking of him after last night put a sloppy grin on his face, which he quickly mastered back into something neutral. 

It occurred to him that, here again, God had intervened to remind him of the righteous path just after he found himself on the road to wickedness. Martha's letter had arrived the day after he and Alexander had committed an act of sin. Alexander had had an answer for that, too. Of course he had; Alexander, it seemed, had answers to everything.

He had said there was nothing wrong with them, and there was no reason to feel guilt, but he didn't know the whole of John's situation. Almost instinctively, John decided that he did not _need_ to know. At least, not right away. Telling him about Martha would only sour what had begun last night, and John didn't want that to happen. But someone as intelligent as Hamilton had to realize that whatever this flame was that had flared between them, it must find a way to bank itself sooner or later. 

At war's end, if he and Alexander both survived, John would be obliged bring Martha over and forge a life with her and the baby. Martha would be a good wife, and he a good husband, and they would continue to bond over books and art and all the things they had enjoyed together in England. They would raise their child--Frances, he reminded himself. She'd named her Frances. And God willing, Alexander would find the same solace in a woman of his choosing. John knew from the others that Alexander had been an enthusiastic playboy during their winter quartering; perhaps John could find a way to convince him that he ought to seek marriage for himself. Alexander could easily parley his accomplishments into a suitable match--maybe even one from a wealthy family. Then he, too, would go home to his wife and enjoy all the comforts of family and respectability.

Was he already pushing for an end so soon? he wondered. No--he could quite selfishly admit that he had no desire to ever let go of Alexander, now that he had him. But he was too realistic to think that they could forsake all others--even if John had not already been wedded himself, it was impossible to consider that they might live as "confirmed bachelors" for all their days. His father had too many plans for him, and he would rather die than disappoint. He'd done enough disappointing his father already in his short life.

So it couldn't last, but in the meantime, he felt as though the sun had come out for him, after spending years in the dark. Still, as he thought about Alexander's audacious statements from the night before, it seemed to him that he ought to do something to curb the other's romanticism, to prepare him for a day when they would have to part. Hamilton often swung wildly between ecstatic and despondent, possibly as a result of whatever hardships he had endured in his past; and the last thing John wanted to do was be the cause of any more pain for the boy. As the elder, it fell to him to ensure their liaison did not ruin either of them. He would have to be vigilant against signs that his dear boy might shout to the rooftops--metaphorically or, knowing Ham, possibly literally--and thus cause the whole house to collapse on top of him. 

And it seemed to John that the best way to do that was to remind Alexander that he also loved the company of ladies, and was lucky to be able to address his affections to the fairer sex, as John never had been. If Alexander could find happiness in a wife, then by all means, John thought, he should do so. It would be better for him by far than to hitch his cart to John. Then, and only then, he could safely reveal to Alexander that he, too, already had a wife and child, and Alexander would be unable to vilify him. And if John should die...then Alexander would have another form of support. Oddly enough, it comforted John to think that Alexander would be--provided for, in a sense, though he would never put it that way to his friend. That he would not continue to be so alone in the world. Yes. Not right away, of course--there was time to explore their new-found intimacy for at least a while. But, John promised himself, if he perceived that Alexander was building castles in the air about their future, then John would have to gently, but firmly, bring him back to earth. 

The clock on the mantel chimed the quarter-hour. He realized he had been woolgathering when he ought to have been working. He'd also been thinking about Alexander when he should have been thinking about his wife, and his duty to his father, and their messages. Sighing, he opened his father's letter first. He would save Martha's for a moment of better privacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: Alexander struggles--he juggles--but lucky for him, Lafayette is wise beyond his years....
> 
> French Translations:  
> S'il vous plaît - please  
> mon Seigneur - my lord (a more formal form of monsieur, giving Lafayette higher rank)
> 
>  
> 
> They're finally together! YAY. Okay, not without complications, but when is life easy? These BOYS, I swear. They are gonna be the death of me.


	12. Lesson Number 12: A Proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm breaking my own rule a little and posting when I have not quite got three chapters ahead--but I wanted to give y'all this update so you'd get something this week. I will not be updating over the weekend because--OMG, I'm SO EXCITED!--I get to see the show tomorrow night! YES!!! I will be in NYC watching all those talented and wonderful performers. (My heart is bouncing, it's hard to believe how much I am looking forward to this. It's almost like I can't believe it's really going to happen.) 
> 
> Also, I have figured out that I am cramming too much into my chapter outlines, so I am officially increasing my estimate to more like 20 chapters. I know, you are all so disappointed that there will be more to this than I thought, lol. 
> 
> On with the show....

It had been a busy few days. Right after the court-martial, Laurens had been sent to the edge of the Schuykill with Captain Lee; he and Lee had returned with a Queen's Ranger and seven Royal Marines, giving them some of the best information they had had in almost a month as to the movements of the brothers Howe. Alexander was fairly bursting with pride on Laurens' behalf and felt his admiration for the other increase even more. The General had had them in council all day, discussing the next steps they ought to take in response, and then to dinner for an official celebration of Lafayette's impending command--and his wife's news of another daughter, Anastasie. Afterward, when Laurens begged off to work on a reply to his father's letter, Lafayette proposed a walk along the river.

"Could we talk for a bit?" Hamilton asked as they drew away from the sentries and down toward the bank.

"Of course," Lafayette told him. 

"I have--questions," Hamilton said. "They might be somewhat personal…."

"Alexandre, I doubt you can say anysing zat will offend me. Whatever you wish to know, you 'ave only to ask."

It was a measure of how open and trusting Lafayette always was, and not a reproach of Hamilton's own guarded habits, but it still took Hamilton by surprise. He could not imagine making such an offer to anyone. He pushed on, though, confident that Lafayette's carefree nature did not automatically mean he would expect any similar revelations from Alexander. 

"It's only…. I know you met and married the Marquise extremely young," he began, easing his way in to his topic.

"Yes. Not only zat, our _familles_ tried to pretend we meet by coincidence. They...tricked us? Trick, is zis ze word?"

"Yes," Hamilton confirmed. "So, that must have been before your first, uh…." He gestured between himself and Lafayette to signify his meaning. 

"Ah, my first _liaison_ ," Lafayette supplied. " _Oui_." His face lightened, as if he'd jumped ahead. "Ah, _je pense que je comprends_ : You want to know 'ow it 'appen?"

"No, I don't need to--that's not--it's none of my business," he assured him. "You'd said it's possible to love more than one person at the same time--romantic love, I mean--and I believe you. What I wonder is...once your...horizons...were broadened, did you find yourself...wanting everyone? Or, let us say, many more people than you expected?"

Lafayette chuckled and Alexander considered hip-checking him into the river. If he helped fish him right back out, surely everyone would believe it was an accident? But he reconsidered the moment's satisfaction; even a ducking couldn't wipe the knowing smirk off the younger man's face.

"Do you mean to say you 'ave feelings for many of our friends 'ere, _cheri_ , or jus' Laurens?"

Alexander should have known Lafayette would see through his hypothetical query, but for the moment, he did not wish to confirm the man's suspicions. "No, I mean to say...is there a danger in this--this behavior? Can it make a man susceptible to the charms of any--or every--other man he meets?"

They had come to a row of trees along the river. Lafayette leaned against the trunk of a large one, bracing a foot on the bole so that his weight was all on the good leg. While the wound had healed well, the calf was still prone to stiffness and aches. "Alex, I cannot say what you will or will not notice about your fellows, now zat you have opened zis part of yourself." He held out his hands to Alexander to bring him closer, and kept hold of his hands as he talked. "But I sink it fair to say…" He slipped into French to better grapple with the concepts. " _The attractions you feel are likely not new to you. No one can force you to take an interest in another man if you do not genuinely find him compelling, hein? It is only that...you have now discovered that the reason you admire him may also be because you find him enticing. Or perhaps you admire him so much that you confuse it with a more sexual attraction._ " He ran his hands under Alexander's buff lapels and drew him in even closer. "So, I ask again...could you imagine, _par example_ , giving yourself to… 'Arrison?"

Alexander snorted. "Good God, no!" he chuckled.

"Ah, I'm glad to 'ear you 'ave not taken leave of your senses _complètement_." He fingered the edge of Alexander's aide's sash. "'Ow about Gibbs?"

"...No," he admitted.

Lafayette gazed at him seductively, then kissed his ear and whispered, "Tilghman?" 

He paused. Tench was handsome, kind, smart, funny…. "I'm not sure," he said. "Maybe? If I thought he'd be interested."

Lafayette nodded encouragingly. He kissed the other ear and asked, "Mc'Enry?"

Alexander giggled. "Dear Lord, no. I'm quite fond of him, but--no."

"Meade?" This was followed by a kiss along Alexander's jaw.

"...Yes, I think so."

"Gimat?" He nuzzled Alexander's throat.

"Gimat?" echoed Alexander, his voice breaking in surprise. "That tickles," he objected.

"Zat's a yes, zen," Lafayette concluded. He lifted his head to look in Alexander's eyes again. " _Voilá_ , ze men you can envision, zey are mos' physically similar to myself and Laurens, _non_? And moreover, zey are all your good friends already. It's not sush _une surprise_ zat you now find yourself attracted." He slipped one hand under the front of Alexander's waistcoat. "Are you afraid you will overstep yourself wiz one of zem?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "How do you manage it?"

One corner of Lafayette's mouth quirked into half a smile. "Ze same as anyone, Alex. Carefully." He dropped his head to plant a kiss on Alexander's lips. "Let me put it so: If you are presented wiz a beautiful lady, you do not immediately attack 'er, _n'est-ce pas_?"

"Generally, one is never alone with a lady the way you mean. But I take your point." He looked around nervously just to make sure they were not within anyone's earshot. Deep in the woods, he saw the red glow of someone's pipe, but there were no campfires, no tents--not a soul in sight of them. He went on, "You're saying that somehow, deep down, I've always been attracted to certain types of men, so, now that I've had some experience of it, it's easier for me to visualize additional liaisons. And that because I already feel affection (and possibly attraction), for some of the lads, it's natural to entertain erotic thoughts about them. Before this, if I'd had any sort of stray fantasy about--Tench, let's say, or--"

"Laurens," Lafayette cut in.

"--Or _Meade_ ," he supplied instead, with emphasis, "if I'd ever had a fleeting thought of a romantic nature, I simply suppressed it, because it was an unthinkable notion. But now I know that it's not outside the realm of possibility for me, even if it's an unlikely event--if for no other reason than the lads are highly unlikely to share mutual feelings, and are more probably platonic in their affection, or fraternal at the most. So, even though they wouldn't return my interest, it's now become an option I have to weigh and--and reject. Not because it's unthinkable anymore, but because it's not something _they'd_ accept or entertain. So, if I want to stay on good terms, I won't do the wrong thing, because if I'm paying attention, I'll know whether they feel the same way. And if they don't, or I'm not sure, then the only safe course is to make sure nothing happens. Is that what you're saying?"

Lafayette had been staring into his eyes as he spoke. Now the young man nodded, saying nothing, and then suddenly switched to shaking his head. "I'm sorry, zat was too mush words too quickly. But-- _oui_ , I sink you 'ave reasoned it for yourself." He wrapped his hand around, under Alexander's coat-tails, to grope his arse, and dipped down for another taste of Alexander's mouth. "Now, does zat mean you are satisfied?" He pecked Alexander on the nose. "Can you stop discussing philosophy and fuck me, _s'il vous plait_?"

Alexander's mouth twitched in a smile that he quickly turned stern. "This is important!" he pointed out. 

"So iz zis," Lafayette replied, touching the bulge in Alexander's pants.

"Oh!" he gasped, fighting to remain quiet. "You're right. That's important, too."

~

The night was getting quite chilly when they returned to the farmhouse, but candles and the fires were still lit in the dining room, and through the windows he could see everyone at work.

"What's happened?" Hamilton asked as they came in.

"More reports from Congress," Harrison said, looking almost giddy. "Gates has managed to halt Burgoyne's progress down from Canada."

"Halt? Let me see," Hamilton demanded, holding out his hand for the dispatches. 

"He's won a full capitulation. His Excellency's reading John Hancock's letter now but--"

"Is that Hamilton?" Washington's voice called through the half-open door across the corridor, from the parlor he'd made his private quarters and office.

"Yes, Your Excellency," Hamilton said at once, with knowing looks to both Harrison and Lafayette. He stole a glance around the room and saw, with surprise, Laurens watching him in a far corner. With an apologetic half-shrug to John, he entered Washington's sanctum.

"Have a look, my boy," Washington said, handing over the pages he had finished. Minutes passed with no sound but the scrape of paper on paper. As Washington read each additional page, he gave it to Hamilton, who added it to the back of his pile. He quickly caught up and had to wait for the final pages one at a time in order to read on.

"Hm," Hamilton grunted when he had read the account. 

Washington expelled a sigh through his nose, lips pursed. "What is it?" he asked in the tone of one who did not wish to hear the answer.

"Still nothing from Gates directly," said Hamilton.

"Exactly." Neither of them thought Gates had forgotten to write, or that the courier had been intercepted.

"A victory is still a victory, sir, and one we need," Hamilton ventured.

"I'm aware of that," Washington said peevishly. "Perhaps Arnold will be able to shine a light on Gates's state of mind."

"Should I write to General Arnold, then, for his version of events?" Hamilton asked. It was an odd tactic, but not a ridiculous one. They'd heard--not from Gates himself, but from Congress--that Gates and Arnold had openly clashed following the battle at Freeman's Farm. Since Washington had sent Arnold specifically to provide Gates with a much-needed dose of temerity, it was likely that Gates had been jealous of Arnold's attempts to urge more action. Arnold's account would hardly be unbiased, with the two of them fighting, but he might be relied upon to at least give them a clear account of the battle.

He had apparently misapprehended the implied request in Washington's statement, though. "Write? Why?" The commander quipped instead, rather testily. "Arnold wasn't in the battle, man. Nowhere near it. He's on his way here; he requested the transfer after the first engagement three weeks ago. He should join us any day." His tone left no doubt that he thought Hamilton should have known the facts--but those facts were a bit misinformed. Hamilton swallowed his urge to answer Washington's ire with his own.

"Sir, it was requested, but he didn't leave," Hamilton instead reminded him patiently. "There was a report from…" he squeezed his eyes shut in an effort to remember, "...one of Morgan's aides, I can't recall his name, saying that Arnold had remained in camp after threatening to go."

"Ho, so, Gates kept him out of the action, do you think?" Washington asked, more interested now.

Hamilton drew breath, but kept his mouth shut, head shaking in doubt. "No, sir, I think--" He rifled through the pages for one section. "This account of the capture of Breymann's redoubt. It doesn't match the rest of Gates's strategy, it's too bold, too aggressive. Granted, it's third-hand by President Hancock's telling, but, my bet is Arnold was still there and took some initiative."

The General held out his hand and, when Hamilton gave him the page, reread the section. "Perhaps Gates thought better of leaving his best man back in camp," he said, sarcastically.

"Or perhaps one of _our_ best men is heading for a disciplinary hearing. Gates is nothing if not vindictive, sir."

He meant the statement to refer to more than Gates's treatment of Arnold. Washington understood him, too, for he looked up sharply. "You think he's going to come after me?" he concluded.

"It's quite possible, sir. This is our first tangible victory--and a crucial one, at that. Gates is vain; he's ambitious but indolent. He'll grab this success and compare it to our failures."

"And lay the blame at my feet, yes," Washington agreed. "I anticipate that very thing. Well, that's a worry for another day. For now, we'll run up the flag tomorrow so the men know our northern campaign is in fine form. Perhaps it will convince them to improve their _own_ performance. A motivation and a goal they should manifestly espouse," he added threateningly. "Anything else?"

"Yes, sir. There's a situation brewing around Fort Mifflin…."

~

By the time he emerged from conference with Washington, he had a dozen new items on his to-do list. Lafayette had gone. About half the men remained at work; surprisingly, Laurens was still at his desk, too, quill in hand. 

Hamilton took a seat next to him, organizing paper and inkwell. "What are you doing here?" he asked, keeping his tone casual for the others' benefit. "I thought you were going to write to your father."

"I was--I am! but he enclosed other letters from--family--and I was replying to those first. And anyway, you and the Marquis were still--out," he said a little too ominously, "so I came back to be of use. And then the dispatch arrived with the news of Saratoga and...well, there you go." 

"I'm going up," Meade announced. "Unless you need anything else tonight, Ham…?"

"No, my dear, go," Hamilton said. "I'll leave a list for you for morning."

He pulled a sheet of parchment and jotted down the things he and Washington had discussed, then set it aside and wrote a single word on a fresh sheet. This he passed to John.

Laurens read it and nodded. He scribbled quickly and handed it back.

>   
>  **Wait**  
>  _Forever, if necessary ___  
> 

They worked on for another hour at least, until Harrison and Gibbs left them and they promised to come up not long after. They were alone. It was hardly a safe location, for though the General had shut his door, he was just behind it, possibly still awake. Then too, the room they occupied was open to the entrance hall, and had large multi-paned windows that looked out on the field. They were entirely exposed. 

"Hello," Laurens said softly.

"Hello. Let's--come this way," said Hamilton, and led Laurens to the rear of the dining room. Through the door that led to the kitchen, there was a little narrow pantry in which the owners kept their table service and linens. Stacks of china, glassware, and the like rose about them in cupboards to either side. The room was dark, for it had two doors and no windows, but it was a room, and it was otherwise empty. That was all they needed for the time being.

Very tenderly, Alexander reached up to kiss John. John grabbed him by the shoulders and clasped him tight, then let his hands wander everywhere. Alexander moaned and worked his way down John's front, sinking to his knees so he could nuzzle John's flies. Then he opened the buttons and let the breeches puddle at the top of John's boots. He dropped John's braes as well. 

He was still somewhat squeamish about suckling another man's penis, but as soon as he beheld John's swelling, purpling cock, he lost his reservations. After two licks along its length, he closed his mouth around the head. He tongued the foreskin as it drew back, then pressed the tip of his tongue to the slit. A drop of fluid was already secreting from John's prick, and Alexander lapped at it as if it were nectar. He felt John's fingers thread through his hair; he reached back with one hand to encourage John to press, prod, pull, while he slid his other hand up and down John's shaft, brushing the ball sacs on each stroke. John began to pump his hips. Alexander felt his own erection strain against his breech-flap and he grunted with the pleasure/pain of it. 

"'M I...hurting you?" John panted.

"Mm-mm," Alexander hummed, shaking his head but unwilling to relinquish John long enough to speak. He sped up his rhythm instead. 

John continued to pant and thrust, harder and harder, until Hamilton worried they might knock the cupboards and send the china crashing to the floor. He eased off.

"No…" John pleaded. "Wait. I--I need…." 

Reluctantly, Alexander removed John's prick from his mouth, but kept the shaft in hand. "What do you need, dearest?" He squeezed one of John's balls lightly. 

"Oh…. that's…. I need to feel--I think I…" Abruptly, he reached for Alexander's wrist and peeled his hand away from his crotch, then knelt beside him. "Is there--d'you think we might both touch each other at the same time?"

Alexander smiled. "Yes, of course." He started to put John's hand on his groin, but John pulled away and shook his head. 

"No, I mean--I want to…." He abandoned words for the more simple expedient of demonstrating his intent. He slid his legs to the side in the opposite direction from Alexander's legs, and laid on his left elbow, working Alexander's buttons with his right hand. Alexander rushed to help, pulling down pants and braes to let his own member free. Then John leaned forward, his face in Alexander's lap. With his free hand, he tugged on Alexander's head.

Laughing low in his throat, Alexander laid down to comply. The mutual satisfaction seemed to please John, because it did not take long for him to climax after that. He continued to explore Alexander with hands and fingernails and tongue and even teeth. John sucked cock like he had been born to it. When Alexander's climax washed over him, he bit his own palm to keep from screaming in pleasure.

John soon shifted to lie in Alexander's arms, his head touching Alexander's chin. "Hello," he said again, utterly innocent and charming.

"Feel free to greet me like that whenever you like, my dear," said Alexander after catching his breath. "How did you think to--"

"What you were doing felt so good but I couldn't reciprocate," John said simply. "I thought--better to give than to receive."

Alexander giggled, then John did, and then they shushed each other like sisters. There was a moment's silence during which Alexander could hear their hearts beating. "John. Earlier, when you mentioned Lafayette--you're not still jealous, are you? Because you could have come along--"

"No, no, I chose to stay, my dear. I didn't mean to admonish you. If I'm jealous, it's only because I had to attend to my duty to Father." He kissed Alexander's cheek in reassurance. "No, in truth, I was a little nervous of being alone with you and the Marquis."

"How so?"

"He's so observant...I felt sure he would guess that something's changed between us. When we're among all the lads, it's easy enough, but with Lafayette alone...I'm sure there would come a moment--a stray touch or a clasped hand, and I'd think, 'Well, it's just _Gilbert_ , he's such a friend he'd surely keep our secret,' and then, my dear, I don't know if I could contain myself."

"You're fairly uncontained now…" Alexander pointed out, his hand straying to John's naked loins.

"Cut that out," John ordered, playfully swatting Alexander's hand away. Then he grew more serious and brought Alexander's hand to his lips. "I don't know how to thank you."

"Thank me? For corrupting you? That's rich," Alexander muttered.

"No, I mean it. You didn't corrupt me, you--you've freed me. You've set me free, Alex. I've never been much impressed with the female sex," he admitted. "Even when I meet women I respect or admire, they hold no fascination for me. So I try to feign the proper amount of interest in their company." He frowned. "I've always been afflicted, and I've always had to...to hold myself back. Once, I thought I might have found a group of friends in England who--who were like-minded. But my father straightaway suspected their characters and on his wise advice, I broke my ties to them. Then I came here, and--and met you." He smoothed the hair at Alexander's temple and stretched up to kiss the spot. His voice grew thick with emotion as he spoke. "You've no idea how quickly I came to love you, how difficult it was to keep my affections strictly fraternal. When I thought you had died, I conjured all sorts of--deplorable thoughts. Probably just to suit my depraved fantasies, but still, they centered around the notion that you might have been like me. And then you came back--" he cut himself off and swallowed hard. 

Alexander looked down and realized that tears had brimmed over in John's eyes. Tenderly, Alexander wiped them away, then brought his thumb to his lips and kissed the salty stain. 

John continued, "You came back, and you're here and you're mine and--God bless you, Alexander. Truly."

"Hey," Alexander said earnestly, sitting up and thus forcing John to sit up and face him. "You don't have to thank me, John. Thank God if you like--I do, too--but not me."

"You gave me courage to--"

"No, _you_ gave yourself permission to seize happiness, that's all. Look: What are the odds the gods would put us in one spot like this?" He cupped John's cheeks in both hands. "It has to be Providence. We were meant to find each other." Drawing John's face to him, he kissed him again, tenderly as before, but now with growing passion and urgency. "For however long we can make this last, John Laurens, I'm yours."

~

Alexander had to _do_ something about his personal situation. As he worked through daily lists of orders, wrote letters entreating other commanders to support Fort Mifflin, juggled Washington's correspondence and summarized the letters from Congress, he puzzled over his two partners. Nights belonged to Laurens--it was a great comfort to sleep and wake side by side. They couldn't risk much contact while sharing a room with all the others, though. They had managed to creep back down to the pantry and repeat their mutual oral attentions only once thus far. Still, since their first amorous embrace, they had contrived to share their bedrolls without fail. Alexander saw no reason for that to change. But during the day, Lafayette kept finding ways to steal him away for a few minutes or an hour, at which time they would invariably exchange breathless, hot kisses, or more if they could get away with it. Each time, when Lafayette encouraged another meeting, he found himself acquiescing, promising to return, rather than putting a stop to things. And he was putting off saying anything to Laurens in the hope that next time, he would be able to resist Lafayette. He realized he was taking the coward's way not once, but over and over, with both of his lovers. If he wanted to retain either of them, he had to face the painful conversations ahead and bear the aftermath. 

They had marched the day before, back to the Wentz house, which, while not as large as the Keely estate, at least meant they were not all cramped together quite so much as at Wampole's. Lafayette had moved back in with them, as well, in a tiny garret that had belonged to a servant. 

That afternoon, as soon as Lafayette returned from a ride, Alexander invented an excuse to speak to him alone. "Major General, there are some details in this letter from the Marquis de Fleury which are beyond my French. Would you be so kind…?"

"Of course," Lafayette said with a generous smile. "Per'aps you would not mind reading it while I change to a clean shirt?"

"No, that would do nicely," he agreed, darting a nervous look to Laurens. The pretext was so flimsy he could imagine that John was already suspicious. Perhaps John was wondering if it would work for the two of them to steal a moment. Alexander only hoped it wasn't so transparent to the rest of the family.

Nonetheless, he needed privacy for the conversation, and for once, he resolved not to allow sex to deflect his goal. They tromped up the stairs to Lafayette's room, which he had somehow obtained here with the family even though properly he ought to have moved to General Greene's area of the encampment. Alexander had not asked why, assuming it was partly so that they could easily see each other. But Lafayette would not have been lying if, when he had asked Washington for permission to stay, he had said it was to be close to Washington, as well. The Great Man had been only too happy to keep him. Their bond grew closer each day, more like father and son than many who had a biological claim to the relationship. Hamilton told himself that was fine for some, if it gave them comfort. He had a father living, unlike Gilbert, and even if he hadn't, he would not have chosen Washington for a surrogate. For the present, though, he was grateful that Washington's affection for the Marquis afforded them a convenient place to talk.

But the moment Hamilton closed the door, Lafayette's hand was on his shoulder. 

"No," said Alexander, a little too harshly, and shook off the touch.

"'Am?" the Marquis asked with a frown. "'Ave I done somesing to displease you?"

"No, not at all," said Alexander, unable to meet Lafayette's eyes. "I fear it's I who may have erred."

Lafayette took off his coat and pulled the pin from his cravat. "In what way?" he asked, more guarded now. "Are we discovered?"

"No--nothing so calamitous," Alexander said quickly. "It's…. You were right, about my having feelings for Laurens."

Lafayette gave him a frown that said he was completely unsurprised. "But of course," he said, shoulders lifting once and resuming their relaxed posture. "I told you, it would be 'ard to keep zis from 'im. I'm sorry it pains you, 'Am. But we can comfort eash ozzer, _non_?" He beckoned Alexander to sit by him on the bed, but Alexander held himself apart.

Frowning in earnest now, the Marquis pulled off his boots and sat back against the wall. When he settled, he swept his gaze along Alexander's full height. His lashes almost touched his cheeks as he lowered his focus to the floor; as they opened again to take in Hamilton's hangdog look, his eyes lost some of their twinkle. 

"Ah," he said sadly. "You will never be satisfied unless you can seduce 'im," he concluded.

"I wouldn't put it quite that way," Alexander hedged, a little stung. "But--"

"Do you mean to say zat if you cannot 'ave Laurens, you will not accept me as a...consolation?" Gilbert asked. Unusually for him, he looked even younger than his twenty years. 

"No--I… _je t'adore, mon cher ami, mais_ \--this is harder than I--"

" _Je comprends_ : You love me but you no longer wish to be my lover," said the Marquis, sounding low and dejected. " _You would rather pine for him than bury your sorrows with me_."

"Gilbert!" he admonished, feeling terrible for hurting the other. "No, that's not it at all, but--oh, why must this be so difficult?" He sighed and pulled a stool over to sit before Lafayette. "I wish that we did not have to stop. Being--lovers." The word did not come naturally from him, for all that it was apt. "But I fear we must. I have something to tell you, but to do so I must betray a confidence."

Lafayette's eyes widened but he nodded. "You can trust me," he said simply.

"I know, _je m'exscuse_ , of course I can. It's just that I don't want to have to betray another's trust, but--Well. I don't see any alternative." He drew a cleansing breath before continuing, now that he was more certain Gilbert would listen. "You're also right that...that he's one of us. Laurens, that is. Or--even more than we are, perhaps."

"'E prefers gentlemen to ladies," Lafayette ventured.

"Profoundly, it would seem," said Alexander darkly. "Exclusively, perhaps."

" _Sacrebleu_ ," said Lafayette with a low whistle. "I knew it but I never suspect 'e would bring 'imself to act. Did 'e, or did you discover it anozzer way? 'E…'e propositioned you?"

"Er--we propositioned each other, more or less," Alexander admitted. "Please let me explain." Then, in hushed and hurried French, he related what had happened. He told of the abortive kiss following his narrow escape in the Schuykill, and the night he and Laurens had finally declared their absolute adoration for one another. He did not point out that ever since then, he had been fucking both of his friends without the other's knowledge. Gilbert could figure that out for himself.

"I see," said Lafayette, proving Alexander right. " _Pauvre 'Am_ , forced to carve 'imself in two. Like Solomon, _non_? Does 'e know about me? Us?"

Alexander shook his head. "No, and in fact, he's nervous you'll figure out that he and I have--have begun a liaison. He's in awe of your powers of observation and deduction, my dear."

"Ha!" Lafayette rested his head on the wall. His eyes closed for a moment. "Is that all 'e admire about me?" he asked, eyes still closed.

"I don't--what do you mean?"

"I mean...I adore Laurens, too, as mush as I do you." Softly, almost to himself, he mused, "If 'e 'appened to feel ze same, about me, I would enjoy it very mush." He sat up. "Alexandre, if it were possible to continue our intercourse, would you wish it?"

"I--I don't know," he said honestly. "That depends on what you mean. I love you, too, but if I had to choose…. I'm sorry, my dear Marquis. It would be Laurens. And I won't go behind his back anymore to be with you. I fear I've already committed a serious breach of his faith in my fidelity."

Lafayette said nothing, but pushed forward and dug in his trunk for the clean shirt. After he changed into it, he turned to Alexander. "I don't suggest zat you should--play 'im false. _Non, jamais_. But if 'e might be persuaded to--share, _c'est a dire, s'il nous partager_ , zen, per'aps you and I need not cease our relations, eizer."

"Oh." Alexander strained to imagine Lafayette's proposed solution. "I don't…. I don't know if he would consider going on as we have been, or even--alternating? Are you saying you want to seduce him yourself?"

Lafayette shook his head. "No, I don't sink 'e would take kindly to zat. No, it mus' be...equilateral. As I say, shared among us." He made a circular motion with one finger to illustrate his idea.

"You mean, sharing ourselves--all three of us?" Alexander tried to picture it. "How would that work? You want to form some sort of harem? Me and you on night one; him and me on the second; you and him on the third? That would be even more conspicuous than the way things are now, my dear. Though at least perhaps I could take a break…." 

Lafayette chuckled. "I was sinking of a solution more _simple_ , Alexandre, and more...enjoyable. _Why choose among us? We can share each other without dividing our hearts--or our attentions. If--and only if--Laurens would be amenable, of course._ " He smiled disarmingly. "It is not so unusual, Alexandre. We French even 'ave a name for it: _ménage à trois_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Hamilton and Lafayette make plans for Laurens' birthday....
> 
> French Translations:  
> familles - families  
> je pense que je comprends - I think I understand  
> par example - for example  
> complètement - completely  
> Voilá - See there (You see / There)  
> je m'exscuse - I'm sorry  
> jamais - never  
> c'est a dire, s'il nous partager - that is to say, if he would share us  
> ménage à trois - OT3!!!
> 
> As always, I appreciate every single Kudos and comment! 
> 
> Oh, hey, for future chapters, does anyone have a burning desire for specific Alex flashbacks/dreams (or Laurens memories, for that matter)? No promises, and I do have some planned already, but if there's something people really want to see, I might be able to incorporate them if they fit upcoming situations. More to come--stay tuned!


	13. Lesson Number 13: A Celebration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The show was A - ma - zing. Not that this is a surprise. It will be shading my interpretations for some time to come, I am sure.
> 
> Just a brief alert: situations in my RL are changing in the next week and it remains to be seen how it will impact my time for writing. I am still writing! But updates may take longer for the foreseeable future. In the meantime, thank you again and always, for your comments, plugs, and kudos. 
> 
> Now. Have some ~~emotionally charged angst~~ vaguely kinky erotica!

It was ironic that the one thing which brought them together, and which gave them commonality of purpose, was their biggest obstacle to implementing Lafayette's scheme. They were off again before the end of the week, taking up residence at the home of James Morris. Called Dawesville, it was spacious and elegant--a palace compared to the cramped conditions at Wampole's house, with ample land surrounding it for the army. Although the trees were still clinging to their leaves and there was frost only one morning in three, the temperatures were dropping, and Hamilton wondered how soon the first snow might fly. He hoped not for at least another month; they still did not have enough blankets to go around. 

But despite the relatively mild weather and the considerably more generous quarters, the business of waging war occupied them more than sixteen hours each day. And still, there was no word from Gates.

Washington had turned his attention to the problem Gates posed with no shortage of craft. Laurens exchanged a sheaf of letters with his father to discover Congress's viewpoint. Lafayette wrote to contacts in France, urging the nobility to use the American cause as an opportunity to blacken England's eye. Other aides wrote to friends who could use their connections to venerate Washington and defend his management of the campaign so far.

Alexander had no one to write, apart from his updates to the New York Committee of Correspondence, so he focused on the usual tasks: directing troops; digesting information from commanders as near as Fort Mercer and as far as Charleston; drafting correspondence with Congress; preparing the army for cold weather; and turning their attention to the coastline. He and Washington reasoned that the next crucial move in their strategy must involve maintaining supply lines and preventing the British from creating a blockade on Continental ports. With New York and Philadelphia both under British control, supplies had to be protected on their way in to northern and southern cities. But then the supplies had to be brought to the army either by riverway or land, or both--not an ideal situation in which to play a waiting game.

As busy as they were, however, Alexander still set aside time for two personal pursuits: reading, and Laurens. 

The plan Lafayette outlined called for Alexander to sound Laurens out regarding the Marquis, to determine if he might share a mutual attraction. If he thought he would entertain the notion, then Alexander could explain his knowledge of Lafayette's predilections--and interest--and indicate his willingness to bring Lafayette in to their bed. If Laurens was not open to the possibility, then Alexander would convey regrets to Lafayette. Lafayette had promised to wait with patience until either outcome was determined, and to revert to friendship if the answer from Laurens was negative. 

Dawesville was certainly more opulent than many of their previously commandeered addresses, but that did not mean perfect privacy. Laurens and Hamilton still shared a room with Meade and Tilghman. On their first three nights at Dawesville, they were cautious. If they were not too tired, they would wait out the others, listening for their breath to even out, for their snores to fill the room, and the stillness of sleep to settle over their mates. Then, they could whisper over the pillow and content themselves with the warm presence of the other. The first night, they fell asleep before that could happen. The second night, Alexander was summoned back downstairs by a late-arriving dispatch. By the fourth night, the need was building in them both. After the candle had been snuffed and the fire banked, after Dick had finally slipped into the odd breathing pattern they recognized as deep sleep, and after Tench's snores could be heard, the temptation was too great. With careful, quiet motion, they huddled together in their bed and sampled each other's favors, trying not to disturb their companions. 

Alexander laid on his back and lifted the cover to gaze down at the top of John's head. John had wriggled down his torso, laving the skin as he went, and there knelt in a low crouch, sucking hard. If anyone had looked over, the tent formed by his curved spine would have put them in mind of a child playacting as a ghost, the sheet draped over and trailing down. Inside the cocoon, John's hot breath created little puffs of warm air against the night chill, and the rhythm of his suction was punctuated by the hot/cold feeling of air out and in. Alexander kept the sheet raised, so he could just barely see in the dark, and brought one hand down to massage his own testicles. The additional contact provided just enough extra stimulation and he spilled forth. John held him steady, swallowing every drop without making a sound, but so greedily that it made Alexander wish he could cry out. He caressed the side of John's face in adoration. "So good," he whispered. John's breath quickened and he twitched involuntarily. 

Before Alexander could ask if he was all right, John released his cock and looked up at him. The whites of his eyes caught what little light from the hearth slipped under the sheets. He stretched his length against Alexander's, so that their chests rubbed and his forehead came just under Alexander's chin.

"Say that again?" he requested.

Alexander patted his hair. "My good boy," he tried experimentally. John clutched him tighter.

"Yes. Yes," he whispered. 

Alexander wrapped his legs around John's hips and hugged him tight. "John's a good boy," he ventured.

"Jack," John said, so muffled that Alexander could barely catch it.

"Jack. Jacky." He cupped John's arse and coaxed him to roll over. They rearranged themselves at the cost of their covering. The cold air raised John's nipples into perfect, erect nubs. Straddling John, Alexander bent down to worry one with his front teeth. John kicked one foot beneath him but his moan was anything but a cry of pain.

"Shh…." Alexander reminded him. Across the room in the other bed, Meade gave an answering sigh. They froze, heads swiveling to look. Meade flipped onto his stomach and grappled the pillow, eyes still tight shut. Expelling a relieved, silent laugh, Alexander licked the nipple he had just bitten and scooped up to John's mouth for a kiss. Then he touched John's hardened shaft. "Little Jacky," he dubbed the organ, expecting John to laugh and swat him playfully. But instead, John pumped his knees and heels in a rapid shimmy, and his penis pointed even higher toward the ceiling. "Hm. _Good_ little Jacky," Alexander whispered with approval, drawing out the first word and tapping a light kiss on the heart-shaped head. He thumbed the folds of foreskin and closed his palm around the base. John made a noise, mouth clamped shut, part whine, part groan of pleasure.

Warming to the way that John was responding, Alexander pulled slowly and leaned forward, letting his now-flaccid prick drag against the crease of John's hip. John's breath hitched. Directly into his ear, Alexander whispered, "Who's a good boy, Jacky? There's my good boy." John turned his head into the pillow to muffle his cry. He spurted before Alexander even had time to move his mouth to catch the emissions. He hoped it was confined to the bed; they couldn't light a candle to make sure. As it was, the mattress would have a wet spot.

"That was...different," said Alexander after grabbing up as much as he could with a used stocking. 

John was still in a stupor. His eyes were glazed over and he panted as if he'd just run a mile. "I'm a terrible person," he said finally, very low in his throat. "That should not have felt as seductive as it did. I don't know what came over me."

Alexander grabbed the bedclothes from the floor and spread them over them both. "Don't you?" He had had an immediate theory, but he did not want to make John feel uncomfortable. 

John gazed into his eyes for a moment, then swallowed. "No, I do," he said. He lowered his eyes in shame.

Alexander immediately lifted John's chin with the side of his finger. "Don't you dare, John Laurens," he said, probably louder and more intensely than he ought to have done. He paused to look over at Tilghman and Meade, who were both still fast asleep. "You don't have anything to be ashamed of."

"I've been writing to him so much lately," said John. There was no need to say who "he" was.

"He loves you intently, my dear," Alexander reminded him. "You've shown me his letters. It's obvious he wants everything good for you."

"I know, it's not that. I just wish…. I want to be a good son," he continued. "I wish occasionally he would say something in praise, without tempering it with criticism."

Alexander bit the inside of his lip, considering his reply. He put his arms around John's neck and nestled him into his collarbone, kissing his temple. "It's better to have a father who cares enough to give advice, even equivocally, than one who never says anything at all." He ducked his head to see if John was looking at him, and smiled. "Isn't it?" he prompted.

"I suppose. Don't tell anyone?"

"Don't tell anyone. Don't tell anyone that I just this evening decided to name your prick "Little Jacky" and you liked it? No fear, John," said Alexander sardonically. 

John smiled and breathed out a shaky, close-mouthed laugh. "No, you ass, don't tell anyone I'm so desperate for his approval."

"Oh, John. That's patently obvious to anyone who knows you, my dear. It's laudable, truly. There's everything to admire in your desire to be dutiful."

The comment hung between them for a long time. Alexander wondered for a moment if John had fallen asleep. He'd meant to bring up Lafayette post-coitally, but now that the mood had become somber, he wasn't sure of that strategy. Perhaps it would be better to ask during the day….

"My birthday's in a few days," John said quietly. 

"Really? When?"

"The 28th. I'll be twenty-three."

"We'll have to drink to it."

John looked up at him inquisitively. "When's yours?" he inquired. "Or is that too personal?"

"It's not, from you. It's in January. January eleven." He re-positioned the coverlet around their feet. 

"And you'll be twenty-one. A whole two years younger, how is it you're the one who's always counselling me?"

"Well, because I'm smarter than you, obviously," Alexander said puckishly. "And I'm only two _months_ younger, not two _years_." Then he held his breath. In his haste to correct John, he realized, he'd made an error.

"Really?" John said right away. "I thought--"

"I know," Alexander sighed. "The records say I'm twenty because I told the enrollment boards at Elizabethtown and King's College that I was born in '57. I was born in '55. I lied." He dimpled his cheeks and shrugged. "I didn't want to be viewed as a nineteen-year-old freshman," he explained simply.

He'd tried to keep his confession lighthearted, but John was staring at him with a combination of surprise and pity.

"You're doing it again," he pointed out. 

"Sorry--sorry," said John. "I just--I imagine it must have been difficult to come here alone. I know when I went to Geneva I felt like a fish out of water for months."

Alexander frowned. Before he'd come, he'd read everything he could about the country that would be his home. But there were things no one put in books or periodicals, and his resources had been scant. He flattered himself that he hardly seemed a bumpkin. Still…. "Sunrise and sunset," he muttered quietly.

"What's that?"

Realizing he'd once again spoken aloud, Alexander sighed. He could simply wave off his utterance. But he knew John craved to hear more of his narrative. He decided to favor John with the briefest picture. "In Christiansted, the sun rises at six and goes down at six. Every day. The most we gained or lost was about an hour. My first three weeks in New Jersey, I kept waking at dawn, arriving to breakfast earlier and earlier, and working later and later til past sunset, until I actually missed supper two nights in a row. I thought I was going insane til I remembered to consult the almanac." He chuckled at his own absent-mindedness, and how easy it was to tell John about it. But that morsel from his past was enough for one evening, and he fell silent. Just as he was about to suggest they had better arrange themselves more safely for sleep, John whispered again.

"Alex, before when you said...a father who never says anything."

Alexander stiffened. "Just a comparison," he attempted.

"Don't, my dear," John told him. "Don't evade with me. I thought--that is, days ago, you didn't deny being an orphan. Is your father living, then?"

Alexander didn't answer. He sat up and grabbed his shirt, threw it over his head and shoulders. "We'll wake the others if we keep talking," he pointed out. 

John appeared to consider pushing, but must have thought better of it, for he forced a smile and signaled agreement by reaching for his own shirt. They laid back-to-back in the bed to avoid twining in each other's arms.

~

So it was not until morning that Alexander could pull Laurens aside to revisit the topic of Lafayette. He combed through the duty assignments for two tasks that would take them to the main camp. "Walk with me?" he invited Laurens. "You can take care of the orders to the artillery while I speak to the quartermaster."

As they reached the empty lane between the house and the ridge, Alexander said, "I wanted to ask you…. You said you've always been afflicted. Does that mean--do you find it difficult to live and work so closely with our other companions? Is there anyone else you--you wish were of a like mind?"

Laurens looked over sharply. Fearing he'd gone too far, Alexander quickly continued. "I know that when I--when I first indulged my 'weakness,' as you put it, I suddenly found myself viewing others differently. If you are experiencing anything similar, I wish to assure you, it's nothing unusual."

John laughed lightly and put his arm around Alexander's waist. "It's nothing new to me, Ham," he said with confidence. "One learns to assume one's alone."

"Yes, of course," Alexander agreed. "What if--what if we're not alone, though? In the family, that is," he qualified.

"Alex, do you...has someone else confided in you?" asked John.

 _Shit_ , thought Alexander. Already the conversation was not going according to plan. He'd accidentally opened the door to let John guess that Lafayette was of their number before Alexander knew whether John found him compelling. But there was no way to abort; lying would make it more difficult. "Yes." He glanced sideways to see John's reaction. 

"I see," John said slowly. "Have you...told him your own inclinations?"

"He knows of my interests," Alexander hedged.

"Knows. So you told him."

"I--he, er, discovered them. Or rather, he caused me to discover them." He grimaced hopefully.

"Meaning you and this other have--" John looked around, although there was no one else on their path-- "have been lovers?" His voice took on a glint of steel. Too late, Alexander remembered John's jealousies.

"We were," he said carefully.

"For how long? And how long ago? Does he know about us?" John demanded warily. "Is there a danger he'll accuse us out of spite?"

"What--no!" Alexander said. "John. Can you guess? It's Lafayette."

Laurens froze in his tracks so suddenly that Alexander had to double back to him.

"I'm sorry, my dear. Does it shock you?"

"Shock? No, that's not the word I would use, Alexander." Apparently "rage" was a more apt description. "Do you mean that all the time I believed that there was something between you two it was--I was right?" John said, voice breaking on the final syllables. 

"...Yes. And I'm sorry we deceived you--we both are, very sorry. You do understand why neither he nor I could tell you before?" Alexander asked earnestly. "John. Please don't be cross. I've been trying to find a way to tell you for days."

"Give me a moment," John said. His jaw set in a furious frown, one Alexander had seen many times when he concentrated on a thorny problem. He stood there for several minutes, while Alexander broke into a cold sweat and waited for John to tell him to go to Hell. Finally, John nodded, and forced his shoulders to relax. "All right," he said, as if deciding to let his anger dissolve. "Yes. Of course, of course I understand. I wish you had--no, I do see it was a delicate secret to reveal. And you're right, he would never denounce us. You wish to bring him into our confidence, is that it?"

Alexander marveled at how John could find forgiveness so easily. He hoped John continued to tolerate him after the next confession, and the next. "No, I--I'm sorry, John, I had to tell him already, to secure his permission to tell you his nature. And to--to explain to him why I can no longer maintain an amorous connection with him. Unless…."

"Unless?"

"What if I were to tell you that his love for you is as steadfast as mine?"

John said nothing. He resumed walking to the camp. After a few paces, he said, "You asked if I'm attracted to anyone else."

"Yes."

"It's difficult for me to imagine loving anyone as much as I do you, Ham," he said slowly, "but if there were one other…. Yes, it would be Gilbert."

Alexander felt a thrill shoot up his spine. "Does that mean you would entertain the idea of...of including the Marquis in our liaison?"

"Half a minute, Alex! Let me get used to the notion of taking him as a lover at all," John cautioned, irritated once more. He nodded toward the ridge where the first sentry post was already in sight, indicating that they should move along. "Let me think about it?"

"Yes, of course. Take all the time you need."

They walked in silence the rest of the way. After passing the first sentry, Laurens said, "He'll be leaving soon, I expect. With Greene."

"Likely so," Alexander agreed, "after the Council of War."

Laurens said nothing else about it on the road. They separated at the camp and delivered their messages. Afterward, they met again and directed their steps back toward the main house. 

About halfway there, Laurens said, "Will it make you happy?"

"I can't promise it will make any of us happy, but I don't imagine otherwise. But will it please you?"

"I don't--how can I know that?" asked John.

Alexander took a step forward and turned to stop the other. "I promise you, nothing can shake my love for you, my dear. If you say you don't want this, then neither do I. I will tell him so, and it will make no difference to the regard he has for you or for us."

"You're certain?"

"With all my heart."

"Then--yes."

Alexander searched his face. "Yes...you want to tell him no? Or--"

"No: Yes, I want to try what you're suggesting. But--you'll be there, won't you?"

"If that's what you want, of course."

"That's--what I want." Again, he looked around at their position; they were alone, but the ridge line offered a good vantage point for anyone who might observe from the house or below the hill. It was not a particularly protected spot. He stepped forward anyway and took Alexander's hand. "I don't know how we'll manage it, but I do love him, too."

Alexander wanted to leap for joy, but he refrained. Instead he wrapped John in a quick embrace. For show, he chucked John on the arm as he parted. Then he pulled him along arm-in-arm, saying, "Good, because I had no idea what else to give you for your birthday."

~

Two days before Laurens' birthday, they finished the list of questions for the generals to consider prior to Washington's war council, which His Excellency hoped to hold before month's end. There was only so much time before winter, and Washington wanted--needed--a victory to offset Gates's.They also received a letter, in French, from the Baron d'Arendt. It was accompanied by another to Hamilton from Fleury. The letters provided a perfect excuse to secure permission to "consult" Lafayette. Laurens packed up their translations and the strategy memo that Hamilton had drafted and they joined him for dinner. As always, the Marquis managed to cadge the best food available, second only to Washington's own table, of course. They dined at a tavern in Blue Bell and, mindful of their duty, they thoroughly discussed the letters, Fort Mifflin, the relative advantages that official French assistance could bring, and how best to secure it. 

Although Lafayette continued to room with them all, he and Alexander had reasoned that for everyone's protection, they should conduct the night's business in a much more private venue. To that end, the Marquis had also scouted the town the day before and found a house whose owners had abandoned it when the army passed through. It had somewhat miraculously not been claimed by anyone else of rank. It was little more than a cabin, but it was more than sufficient for their purpose.

After their supper, They rode to the house. Inside, Lafayette lit the lamp and Laurens and Hamilton got a fire going in the hearth. A large bed occupied one corner, its posts hung with curtains to trap warmth and separate it from the rest of the room. A rough-hewn table and two benches stood on the other side of the entrance. They removed their swordbelts and pistols into a pile on one of the chairs. 

"They left the bed?" Laurens remarked once the fire caught and began to light the room.

"It's not exactly portable," Hamilton observed. But he understood Laurens' surprise: the bed was probably worth more than the entire cabin. He glanced over his shoulder at Laurens. "Feeling all right?"

"Yes," Laurens assured him, with a nod. 

"I've brought somesing special," Lafayette announced. "One moment." He ducked out of the door to grab the saddlebags. 

This was part of the plan, Alexander knew. Gilbert had suggested that he give Alexander and John time to start, and join in once John was comfortable. Alexander took John's hand and pulled him closer. "I've a notion the lads will wish to fête you on your birthday, so...this is likely the closest we'll get to any private celebration."

"More likely you'll be preparing for that war council His Excellency wants to hold," John said with an easy smile. He jerked his head toward the door. "You two don't have to treat me like a horse to be gentled, you know."

Alexander blushed. "Gilbert thought it might be easier for you--" He swallowed his statement abruptly when John pushed in for an ardent kiss. John's hands plunged inside Alexander's coat and gripped the sides of his waistcoat. 

"Let's just take things as they go, shall we?" John asked, the corners of his mouth quirking up. 

Alexander nodded agreement. He ducked forward for another kiss. John cradled Alexander's head in his hands, but gently broke the embrace. He winked and crossed to the door. As he opened it, he called, "Gilbert, there's no need to play coy." Then, leaving the door ajar, he turned back to Alexander and shrugged. 

A few seconds later, Gilbert entered, saddlebags in hand. "Bored with Alexandre so soon, _cheri_?" he asked, shutting and latching the door.

John stared at Alexander as he said to the Marquis, "Oh, I doubt that it's possible to become bored with our Hammie. But if we are to be equals in this, all three of us, then I think we ought to start off that way, don't you?"

Gilbert bowed his head, eyes closing as he frowned appreciatively. " _Que raisonnable_. One can tell you spent time in Geneva; the Genovese are uncommonly good at compromise."

John shook his head and took Gilbert's hand. "I don't tend toward compromise," he said lasciviously. "I just don't need to be coddled." He slipped his hand up to Gilbert's neck and stroked his jaw with his thumb. " _Beau garçon_ ," he murmured. Then he and Gilbert were kissing. 

Gilbert dropped the saddlebags and grabbed John about the hips. Soon they were grinding against one another. John reached out one hand toward Alexander, who moved into the circle of his outstretched arm with a feeling approaching gratitude. John's fingers curled into the hollow underneath Alexander's queue knot, pressing gently against the nape of his neck. Alexander let John's grip guide him toward John's shoulder. His own hands drifted, one around John's back and one around Gilbert's. They all probed and caressed each other and came closer until Gilbert could turn his head and trade a kiss with Alexander as well.

They had the rare luxury of taking their time, so they did. Gilbert picked up the saddlebags and placed them on the table. After opening the flap, he pulled out a fresh supply of oil and a bottle of champagne. "We should drink zis while it's cold," he said. 

"I don't believe it. Is there nothing you can't obtain?" Alexander teased. He'd had champagne once or twice while dining with the Livingstons and Lord Stirling. The supply all over the colonies was said to have dwindled to nearly nothing.

" _Oui_ , but if I cannot, zen _il n'est pas necessaire_ ," Gilbert said flippantly. He popped the cork and measured out portions into three entirely incorrect vessels. They raised their glasses to freedom and the three of them and then set the drinks aside.

Gilbert reached for John. As John moved forward into Gilbert's embrace, Alexander drifted behind. Alexander wrapped his arms around John, while Gilbert untied John's cravat. John's hands weren't idle, either: he ran them down Gilbert's chest, settling on the buttons of his waistcoat. Gilbert kissed the underside of John's jaw and the hollow of his throat. John tipped his head back onto Alexander's shoulder and nuzzled him behind the ear. With a shudder of pleasure, Alexander stepped forward, sandwiching John between him and Gilbert, so that he could also reach Gilbert's buttons. Gilbert, meanwhile, had kissed his way to John's chest, and now worked the shirttails out of John's breeches. Gilbert put one hand on each of their hips, and as he pushed in, he reached down to flip their coattails out of his way. He traded kisses, one to Alexander, one to John. As John and Alexander freed his waistcoat, Gilbert paused long enough to shrug out of his coat and lay it on the table. He took another sip of champagne.

"Still too cold in 'ere," he observed. He let go of Alexander and John and put more logs on the fire. Alexander took advantage of Gilbert's temporary absence from the circle to close in for a deeper kiss. John twisted into Alexander's embrace. 

"Alex, I made sure zat ze bed 'as fresh linens," he commented casually. "Whenever we're ready, of course."

"Don't--rush," John said, still focused on Alexander. They had unbuttoned each other's waistcoats. The extra logs had caught, but the room was still chilly more than a few feet from the hearth. John pulled Alexander closer, but then broke Alexander's kiss to grab his drink and downed two quick gulps. 

"C'mere," he said to Gilbert, holding out his free hand.

Gilbert shook his head. "It's warmer over 'ere. I sink I watch you and Alexandre for a while."

"Oh, no," said Alexander. "No free shows, only participants." He removed his coat and sash, draped them over another chair, and followed Gilbert to the fire. "John?"

"You had me at warmer," John said, finishing the glass of champagne with another healthy swig. He joined them. With the heat doing its job, it did not take long to shed coats, waistcoats, boots and even shirts. Alexander opened the curtains closest to the fire, and closed the far sides. He came back to the other two, where Gilbert and John were kissing, caressing each other's torsos. Alexander released the flaps on John's breeches and eased them down to his ankles. John stepped out. Gilbert pressed him backward toward the bed. 

As he leaned back on the mattress, John caught Alexander's eye. Through the bravado and the mischief, Alexander detected a hint of nerves there. Alexander went to one side of the mattress and crooked one leg to ease onto the bed with one foot still on the floor. Then he bent over and kissed John tenderly. "I love you," he whispered in John's ear. John nodded. Gilbert, meanwhile, crawled up from the foot of the mattress and positioned himself between John's legs. John gripped Alexander's arm and pulled him in. It was something like the way a child might grow shy before a stranger. 

"You," John whispered to him. Alexander thought he understood. He kissed John and gently peeled his hand off his elbow. Then he shifted closer to Gilbert, knee to knee.

"John hasn't been a receiver yet," he said. 

Gilbert sat up, chastened. "If you wish to cease, you 'ave but to say."

John glanced from one lover to the other. "No. But I don't need to be the center of attention," he pointed out. 

"Nonsense," said Alexander. "It's your birthday. Besides, we _want_ to please you. Just tell us what you want, John."

"Indeed," agreed Gilbert. "Tonight is for all of us but you in particular, John. _Que désire-tu_?"

"You're both trying to seduce me?" he asked with a hint of humor.

"Well, I suppose that's one way to put it," Alexander said. He sat down between Gilbert and John, one hand on John's knee. "Perhaps this is too awkward. Gilbert, could you--give us a moment?" 

Gilbert nodded and began to move off the bed. John said, "That's not necessary. I--I mean it that I want this to be equal, but, Gilbert, I'm sorry, if I'm going to 'receive' as you put it, then I want Alex to be--I want it to be Alexander," he blurted, blushing furiously. "And I--I want Gilbert and I to--" he looked at Alexander, "to do as you and I did at Wampole's." 

Alexander nodded in understanding. "In the pantry?"

"Yes."

"I think we can manage that." Alexander patted John's knee and whispered in Gilbert's ear. "You're going to enjoy this, my dear. Turn around, legs toward John's head, on your side. John sucks like--like it's a religion. I'll get the oil." He grinned at Gilbert's eager expression. Before he left the bed, he dropped a kiss into the hollow of John's hip. "I'll be right back," he promised. 

It took no time to retrieve the lubricant, but by then, Gilbert had already positioned himself on his left side. John's back was to the fire now. Alexander sidled up the bed, opposite Gilbert. Gilbert slipped out of his breechclout and stroked himself once before John took over for him. He closed his mouth over Gilbert's cock.

"Oh, _Mon Dieu_ ," Gilbert said with approval. 

Alexander grinned again. "I told you you'd like it."

Gilbert gazed at him over John's hip, head cradled on his hand. "Don' get too far away, Alex," he cautioned. "I will--oh!--I will want to touch you--John, _c'est magnifique!_ " He dropped his arm and head, so that he could repay John's attention in kind.

Alexander turned his focus to John's backside. First he kissed, then bit at the taut globes of John's arse-cheeks. He ran his finger between John's legs, forward to caress John's balls (and a bit of Gilbert's jaw, while he was at it), then back to the puckered hole. He opened the oil jar lid. Then he slid onto his own left side, back to the fire, almost spooning John, but leaving enough space to touch and maneuver. Coating his right index finger in oil, he felt his way gently into John's arse, punctuating each slow probe with a kiss to John's shoulder, spine, shoulderblade, arm--anything he could reach. He lifted himself onto his forearm so he could whisper into John's ear.

"Just relax, Jacky," he said, barely making any sound that Gilbert could hear. "Lift your leg a bit for me? That's good, no, don't stop. Let Gilbert take care of you, my dear. Now, push back against my finger when I push forward--" John moaned against Gilbert's cock, which made Gilbert sigh appreciatively into John's crotch. He released John's penis to lick around its base and his balls. 

"You were right, Alexandre," he said. "''E's _merveilleux_." He looked down his body to where John had also taken a break. " _Quelle formidable, cher,_ " he said with a smile. John beamed back at him, and then glanced to Alexander.

"You told him about--"

"Your skill? Just now."

"No. The other thing."

"Ah." Alexander laughed. "No, John, he figured that out by himself." 

Gilbert was frowning at them. "What 'ave I figured out?"

"Tell John what you think of his abilities," Alexander suggested, enjoying the slight panic and anticipation mingling on John's face. "Tell him he's our good boy," he continued with a loving pet to John's hair.

" _Il est un garçon brillant_ ," Gilbert agreed. He kissed John's hip, then arched up to kiss Alexander as well. " _Nous aimons notre bon garçon_ ," he said. He put his left hand between John's knees, caressing the inside of John's thigh. 

John shuddered and his eyes drifted closed. He rolled forward a bit and went back to work on Gilbert's prick. Gilbert returned the favor, but not before reaching around John's other leg to rub his thumb over the head of Alexander's cock. A little precome came away; Alexander moaned as Gilbert withdrew and the liquid on his cock cooled. A moment later, Alexander heard John hiss in satisfaction. Dimly he realized that Gilbert must have touched the pad of his thumb, slick with Alexander's fluid, onto the tip of John's penis. 

Alexander dipped back into the oil pot and then gently eased his index finger back inside John. "Breathe, Jacky," he whispered in John's ear. "Breathe out and push against me now." He added a second finger. John complied and groaned at the effect. 

"Alex, if you keep doing zat to 'im, I'm going to lose a part of myself I value greatly," Gilbert teased. 

John protested. "No! No, I'll be...I'll be good," he said. He gazed up at Alexander. "Don't stop." His eyes pleaded for another kiss, so Alexander obliged, coming up onto his knees. John's mouth smelled faintly of Gilbert's tangy sweat, his tongue tasted of champagne and the metallic tinge of sex. 

"I'm not going to stop," Alexander assured him. "But maybe for the moment, you should just enjoy our attentions? Let us do the work for a time." He questioned Gilbert with a glance. The youngest of them nodded and sat up, hand still lazily stroking John's front.

"But what about you two--" John began to protest.

"Shh, John. You'll have your chance to reciprocate," Alexander promised. "It really is easier the first time if you're only worrying about one thing."

John looked about to object again, but Alexander pushed in to kiss him. He captured John's lower lip in his own, drawing back slowly. Then he returned for another scrape of tongue on tongue, followed by a series of short, quick kisses along John's jaw and cheek. "Do you think we're not enjoying this?" he asked with care. "We have all night, John. One step at a time."

John's eyes melted and he nodded assent. He laid down once more. When Gilbert did, too, John contented himself with a loose grip on Gilbert's cock. He feathered kisses on Gilbert's thighs and pelvis, his balls and the folds of his loins, even licked his shaft, but did not begin to suckle on it again. 

" _Tres bon_ ," Gilbert told him approvingly. John's body twitched in a frisson of excitement. Gilbert nodded at Alexander and went back to work on John's erection. Alexander, meanwhile, fondled himself once or twice to regain ground, and then shifted back down to kneel behind John's knees. He lifted John's leg again, pausing to enjoy the view of the top of Gilbert's head. He gave Gilbert's crown a kiss before bestowing another on the seam of flesh between John's legs. Slicking up his fingers once more, he thrust first one, then two, then three into John's hole.

"Push out," he coached. He hooked his fingers into John's prostate and was rewarded with a loud cry. "That's why Gilbert wanted you to wait," he explained, and hit the gland again. Gilbert's hand found Alexander's hip and squeezed. They established a rhythm: Alexander probed John in time to Gilbert's suction and strokes. John pumped Gilbert more and more rapidly as his arousal overpowered him. 

After a few minutes, John's canal relaxed noticeably. "Are you ready, John?" Alexander asked.

"Yes, I--YES, please, Alex, I want--you--oh, God--" John tried to put his hands everywhere at once--on Gilbert, on Alexander, on himself.

"All right, all right--Gilbert, up, I need more room." Gilbert released John and sat up on his elbow, still stroking the wet, red cock.

"John, let me lie beneath you," Gilbert offered. "Get onto your knees for Alex, it will be easier."

John rolled over and Gilbert wriggled underneath, still pointed in the opposite direction. Alexander moved to the foot of the bed and they all had to reposition slightly to give everyone enough room. John straddled Gilbert, dipping down to kiss everywhere, while Gilbert helped hold John's hips steady for Alexander. He reached one hand to cup Alexander's balls as Alexander lined himself up with John. 

"When I say, push against me," Alexander told John. "Now."

John did as he was told, but Alexander had not been prepared for the tightness, the supple pliance, the perfection that came with buggering John. He let out his own satisfied cry and had to hold himself back from thrusting wildly right away. He became aware of Gilbert's hands on his arse, guiding him in and out, and matched the rhythm for a while before dictating an accelerating pace. John panted and writhed, returning eventually, Alexander noticed, to Gilbert's cock to suck on it again. He wasn't sure whose orgasm occurred first, John's or his, but he could tell when Gilbert's was added to the mix. They all stilled as they climaxed in quick succession. John let go of Gilbert's prick first, and Gilbert wriggled out toward the fire side so that John could lie prone on the mattress. 

Alexander began to pull out but John grabbed for his hand and wrapped it around to his heart. "Stay, stay Alex, please," John said. Alexander kissed the back of John's neck. 

"I'm not going anywhere," he promised. He glanced over to Gilbert, who had flipped the right way around and now laid down with one arm thrown over Alexander's back. As Gilbert nestled up against John, Alexander leaned toward him and they kissed. "John, let me roll to your other side?" Alexander requested. 

John whined a bit but shifted his hips. Alexander rolled with him to the side furthest from the fire. His cock slipped out of John's arse, earning another whine of protest from the eldest man. "Shh," Alexander said, smiling as Gilbert began to quieten John with strokes and kisses and flicks of his tongue over John's breast. "It's all right, John."

John muttered something into Gilbert's shoulder. Gilbert shrugged at Alexander, head bobbling in an uncomprehending shake. 

"What was that, love?" Alexander asked John. "We couldn't hear."

John wedged his way onto his back between them, throwing his arms up to capture them both about the shoulders. "I said best birthday present ever."

They all laughed. Alexander took Gilbert's hand in his and placed their twined fingers over John's heart. "Oh, my dear. That was only round one."

In the end, they tested out another three combinations before their stamina failed. It was closer to dawn than midnight when Gilbert fell asleep; John convinced Alexander to close his eyes shortly afterward. "I've had a wonderful time," he told Alexander sincerely, "but even you need to rest." As Alexander drifted off in John's arms, he thought drowsily how strange life was. He'd been raised in what many would call a paradise, born into a childhood that was anything but ideal. Now, in the middle of a war that made their living conditions at times a hell, he could not remember ever being happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Alexander spends some quality time with Washington....
> 
> French Translations:  
> Que raisonnable - How sensible  
> Beau garçon - Beautiful boy  
> il n'est pas necessaire - it's not necessary  
> Que désire-tu - what do you desire  
> c'est magnifique - magnificent  
> merveilleux - marvelous  
> Quelle formidable - How wonderful (idiomatically: awesome)  
> Il est un garçon brillant - He's a brilliant boy  
> Nous aimons notre bon garçon - We love our good boy  
> Tres bon - Very good


	14. Lesson Number 14: A Mission

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild trigger warnings in this chapter for treatment of slaves.

It had been a full, long day. Hamilton's hand ached; he'd been writing as fast as others spoke for hours. Meade and Harrison had notes from the War Council as well; he hoped they would be able to fill in anything he'd missed. It was after supper, though, and as tired as he was, he wanted to make sure to capture as much as he could remember before it fled his brain.

Across the table, Laurens had been working on a letter to his father. "We decided it's gally, right?" he asked, pausing in his rhythm. "G-A-L-L-Y?"

"E-Y looks better, I think," Hamilton said absently. He was scratching additions and edits into the margins, already distilling the transcripts into a nascent draft of minutes, and wondering whether he should pull a fresh sheet to get started on them. How close to done was Laurens? He glanced over; John had scratched over the questionable spelling and was carefully inserting six letters where before he had had five. The letter appeared barely begun.

Their third member was also occupied. Lafayette was closeted with the General, along with Greene; they had been in close conference since just after supper. Before supper it had been Knox and Sullivan. Hamilton would not have been surprised if Washington called for McDougall and Wayne next, and so down the line of all his brigadiers. Eventually he would finish discussing their orders with them, and call Hamilton to help write them out. It promised to be a long night.

Both Hamilton and Laurens had been correct about Laurens' birthday--Hamilton had been kept busy preparing for the council, and the lads had arranged a supper in John's honor. Lafayette, Laurens, and Hamilton had tried to outlast the others, but in the end, Lafayette had to give up on waiting. Last night, Alexander and John had gone up only a few minutes after Meade and Tilghman. Lying together, only their hands touching under the cover, Alexander wondered whether their new arrangement was really going to work or not. He and John had only had the chance to discuss it briefly on the day after their threesome--and not at all with Gilbert since. John had said he was happy, and Alexander believed him--but it was awkward when they couldn't spend equal amounts of time with Lafayette. Then again, perhaps it was just as well they could not. He wasn't sure what to make of the situation. But he knew they all needed more time before things could possibly settle into a routine or even a rhythm.

He was trying to think of a subtle way to confer with Laurens about whether to wait for Lafayette, creep away for a few moments in private, or simply tell John to pack in after a long, haranguing day, when Washington's door opened. Greene and Lafayette emerged.

Lafayette smiled in their direction and for a moment, Alexander thought he was going to come speak to them. But just then the General appeared in the doorway. "Hamilton."

Alexander suppressed a jolt of nerves. "Sir?" he said, rising to attention.

"Come in for a moment," Washington told him and turned, confident that his command would be obeyed.

With a slight shrug to Laurens and Lafayette, Alexander obeyed.

"Sir?" he asked again as he approached. 

"Shut the door." Washington had crossed to a window; now he turned and came to a chair by the fire. He gestured to its twin. "Have a seat, Alexander."

His given name. So it was to be one of those times when Washington imagined himself a friend or a father, or some combination. As he perched on the edge of the cushion, Alexander tried to guess what the topic would be. Did Washington wish to summarize and think through the council's conversation and recommendations before summoning different brigadiers? Was he done for the evening and ready to start writing up orders? Did he want Alexander to gather more information on the status of the country around Philadelphia, or was he looking to sound out his thoughts on General Wayne's opinions regarding the measures to guard against desertions? Or was it to be another session in which Washington attempted to justify a decision, and wanted Alexander to reassure him it would be the right choice? 

"If my information is correct, you were a clerk for a shipping and trading firm, were you not?" Washington asked.

"Yes, sir," Alexander said slowly. 

"St. Kitt's, wasn't it?"

"St. Croix, sir," he answered, growing more uneasy. Where was the General going with this?

"Not a small task. How old were you when you started? Fourteen? Younger?"

He gritted his teeth. "Twelve, sir."

"Industrious," Washington said, as if Alexander had chosen to begin working out of ambition, not necessity. "How did that come about?"

Alexander felt his heart jump. Did the man simply wish to chat and pry? It was none of Washington's business, and yet he had little choice but to answer. He offered the minimum amount of detail as he crafted his response. "I helped in my...mother's shop. We got most of our stock from Beekman and Cruger, so...I went often to select goods. They needed a clerk and--offered me the position." He straightened his shoulders and willed Washington to change the subject. Small chance of it.

"And clerking for their offices promised more opportunities than your family's store, I presume. You were left in charge of charters, if I'm not mistaken, before you were sixteen?"

"Misters Beekman and Cruger were both obliged to travel for the company's interests. I managed their St. Croix offices by myself for months at a time, on several occasions, yes. I'm sorry, sir, may I ask--that is, is all this relevant to anything in particular?" he asked in confusion--and a mounting frustration he fought to control.

It might have been an error to speak so combatively, but technically, Washington had opened the floor by inviting him to sit and forcing him to talk about his past. His Excellency did things like this with the family from time to time: it was just the sort of trap Washington liked to lay. He would introduce a topic or ask for opinions, pretending that they were having a casual conversation, encouraging his men to speak candidly. He wanted them to feel comfortable and informal--until he didn't. Hamilton was not going to play that game, preferring to call him out even if it meant reprimand. It would, at least, close the discussion. 

But Washington did not upbraid him. He only held his eyes for a moment's silence before saying, "Do you know me to be in the habit of asking questions that are not relevant?"

"No, Your Excellency," Alexander agreed, hating the bit of pandering that he put into his reply. "But Your Excellency is also not in the habit of asking questions that are--so personal."

Washington grunted once appreciatively. Then with a tone of mild rebuke, he said, "I've never known someone who loves to talk as much as you do, Alexander, but never about himself." He let the statement hang between them. 

Alexander said nothing, his jaw set firmly. If Washington wanted to know something, he would have to ask it outright. Alexander suspected that, whatever his reasons, Washington would back off before he expressed himself in so probing a way. 

Seeing that his joke did not loosen Alexander's mood, Washington sighed and leaned forward. "I believe it's relevant because I have in mind sending you to secure my brigades, and if I do, you will need to harangue them out of Gates--preferably without giving him even more ammunition to lobby Congress for my removal." He leaned back again. "When you were a clerk you dealt with men who were older and more experienced, and yet you were able to direct them. How did you do it?"

Hamilton took a steadying breath. He could barely think how best to answer the General's question. Washington was finally going to send him to Gates. The threat of it had hung over him so long that he had begun to think it would never materialize. And it was happening now, just when he, Laurens, and Lafayette were trying to achieve equilibrium. His personal affairs would have to wait, however, while duty took precedence. His friends would understand and agree.

"Some of them were indeed older and more experienced, and in such cases, their judgement was generally sound," he answered candidly. "When they weren't familiar with voyages of our type, I had the benefit of being able to provide instruction based on my own knowledge of the trade."

"And the knowledge that your employers would take your part," Washington surmised.

"Yes, sir. So long as I was right." His tone left little doubt that he had been, generally, right.

Washington nodded. "You'll have authority to take the action you deem necessary, of course," he said, as if somehow between his question and Alexander's answer, he had made his decision. "But the situation is tricky, as you know."

"Yes, sir, I understand. Three brigades?"

"Three."

"Will that be enough, sir?"

~

They strategized and spoke for nearly an hour. It could have been a much shorter interview, but Washington kept trying to get Alexander to divulge details of his past experience with Beekman, Cruger, Kortright, and the various captains of vessels he had contracted for their business. Alexander couldn't think why he persisted. If Washington trusted him with the mission to Gates, then he had already concluded Alexander had the wherewithal to handle the fractious general. If he did not trust Hamilton, then why send him? It was as if, in deciding to send him away, he wanted to keep a part of Hamilton there by extracting his life story. 

Perhaps he was planning against another report that Hamilton had died while on the road, or had been intercepted and captured, or otherwise had fallen victim to some calamity. He could imagine that Washington did not want to learn of Hamilton's circumstances and, once more, have no idea who should be informed. He'd inadvertently embarrassed the General through his inconvenient grip on his privacy.

Whatever the reason, General Washington had seemed in no hurry to conclude their consultation, and insisted on expressing his confidence in Hamilton by attempting to treat him benevolently. Only once did Hamilton betray his impatience with his commander's attitude. Just at the end of their conversation, they rose to part and Washington recommended Hamilton pack and get some sleep. The General said, "Whatever you do, see that you come back to us, son. I know Conway thinks I'm daft to listen to someone as young as you but by God, this war needs you here to keep it organized."

Alexander had drawn himself up as tall as he could, and boldly asked: "Sir, if I am able to bring Gates to heel--I mean, to impart to him his duty to you as the commander-in-chief of the army--what is the likelihood that you'll entrust me with command of one of the battalions among the brigades I've procured?"

Washington's head jerked upward, as if the question were the height of impertinence. It probably was, but Hamilton didn't care. Washington clearly thought he'd complimented Hamilton and he needed a reminder that his organizational skills were not what he wished to be known for in the war effort. He wanted to fight, not write. Besides, the condescending way Washington called him "son" rankled him no end. It was as if Washington expected him to roll over and show his belly just like that dog they'd returned to General Howe. 

"Colonel," Washington answered gravely, "you of all people should be well aware of the--the politics that get involved when considering promotion such as you request. I know you're a competent officer and if it were solely in my power, I should seriously consider your commission. At present, however, in these circumstances--it's…." he seemed to deflate a bit, "...not in the cards. I'm sorry, son."

There it was again. He'd used the presumptuous term to soften the blow, Alexander knew, but a denial was a denial. "I--understand, sir," he said, and he meant it. He did understand and Washington wasn't wrong. But he also knew that Washington wasn't going to push when he was under fire from Conway and Congress both. "If I'm to leave tomorrow, I should rest. Permission to retire?"

"Granted. Go with God, my boy."

Hamilton shut the General's door behind him quietly. His emotions were so mixed as to leave him entirely overwhelmed. He was pleased to have been selected for a delicate and crucial mission, and for the autonomy with which Washington entrusted him, but chagrined and angry that no matter what Herculean task he accomplished on the General's behalf, it seemed never to be enough to jump him up in rank. He was frustrated and chastened by the General placing self-interest above the best interests of the army--for he was certain that if he and Lafayette and yes, Laurens, could each procure their own forces, they could run rings around the older, staid Continentals and the British besides. Instead, Washington opposed his promotion for two primary reasons. First, because it might mean displacing another commander, and he did not want to deal with the repercussions. And secondly, because Washington wanted to keep Hamilton right where he was, under Washington's thumb, doing what the Great Man himself could not. Not for the first time, it irked him to think how he was silently making up for Washington's own shortcomings. And the only "gratitude" he received for it was the man's infuriating brand of benevolent dictatorship. What good would that do him, when the war ended and Alexander went back to having nothing?

He knew that Washington, in his way, was trying to be paternal, even if that was exactly what Alexander did not want from him. He hoped he hadn't given offense by rejecting the man's invitations to confide in him, but they were here to fight, not relive days Alexander would rather keep buried. 

And of course, over all these things, he was nervous about the journey and about having to leave his lovers so soon.

He was surprised, then, to see that they were both still waiting for him. 

"Well?" Laurens asked first. "Is everything--all right?"

"Did 'e ask you to go to Gates?" Lafayette added with uncanny prescience. 

Alexander took a second to wipe the stormy frown off his face. He forced a more pleasant expression into place and said, "Yes. He'll issue the formal order tomorrow. I'll leave immediately afterward."

They came forward to congratulate and reassure him that he would return to them soon, safe and successful. 

"I knew 'e would choose you," Lafayette told him with a broad smile. "Greene say to send someone older, Gates per'aps would listen more _rapidement_ , but 'Is Excellency say _non_ , 'e cannot trust anyone else wis' zis task."

"He said that?" Alexander asked, looking at the closed door as if he could see through it.

" _Oui_. And I agree. I told our Laurens as mush, while we waited to see if I was right. I say to 'im: _Il n'y a personne d'autre qui correspond à votre brillance tactique--sauf moi, bien sûr_ ," he qualified with mock modesty.

"That's right," Laurens added. "You'll outsmart Gates and come home with troops. I wouldn't be surprised if he gave you their command."

"Surprise, then," Alexander muttered darkly. "I already asked him that and he's already refused."

Laurens' grin faded. "Well," he said slowly, absorbing the blow almost as if it were his command, and not Alexander's, that had been rebuffed, "even so. He'll owe you his gratitude and so will every man here when he's got more reinforcements. And everyone here will know that you've bearded the lion in his den."

Alexander smiled ruefully. "It's all right, John. I didn't expect him to fall over himself making promises."

"We'll be back together in no time," John offered by way of consolation.

"Yes."

"Speaking of zat," Lafayette said, his hand on Alexander's sleeve, "We 'ave decided we cannot let you leave wizout a proper… erm…" he looked to Laurens.

"Sendoff," John supplied.

" _Merci_ ," said Lafayette. 

Obviously they had been conspiring while Alexander had been in conference with the General. Alexander dearly wished to let them have their way. He had no desire to leave without another taste of both of them, either. But he was already thinking of all the things he would have to do. Packing and getting to sleep were top of the list, not whatever they had in mind.

"It's not that I don't appreciate it, my dears--" he began.

"Oh, no, you're not brushing us off so easily," John said. "It so happens I had Shrewsbury pack your bag while you were in there, so that's already done. And I guarantee that we'll let you get enough sleep."

"Come along, Alexandre," said Lafayette, sliding his hand down to grasp Alexander's. "My room, for a drink," he announced, a little more loudly than necessary. Laurens gripped the tops of his shoulders and shook them companionably. 

"A drink!" he crowed. "Let's go."

Upstairs, John peeled off to fetch Alexander's rucksack and shaving kit, while Gilbert rummaged in his bag. "DuBuysson gave me--ah!" he said, producing half a bottle of wine. "I don't sink we 'ave glasses, so…." he uncorked the bottle expertly. "You first, Alex."

Alexander tipped up the bottle to taste it and handed it back. He still did not feel in a celebratory mood, but it seemed important that the other two be allowed to say their goodbyes. He fought off a horrible foreboding--not for his mission to Gates, though that was certainly its own challenge, but for the way his absence might upset the balance the three of them had not yet had any time to achieve. He understood too well Laurens' and Lafayette's pangs of jealousy, of fearing that they would find themselves on the outside of a friendship that had been harmonious. By the time he returned, who knew what bonds Laurens and Lafayette would forge without him?

John came in and bolted the door. He accepted the bottle from Gilbert. "To our little lion," he said affectionately, "and may he prove victorious."

" _Notre petit lion_ ," Gilbert echoed, and took a swig after John had had his swallow. He handed the bottle to Alexander again.

"You're both lunatics," he reminded them, but he took a drink. Gilbert then captured the bottle and placed it safely on the dresser. Before he turned back, John had already moved in. John crushed Alexander to him and kissed him ravenously. Gilbert pulled his coat off his shoulders and Alexander dropped his arms to let him get the sleeves off. Then Gilbert, too, was petting him, his back, his hips. They attacked him in tandem, lavishing attention on his flesh. He relaxed and surrendered under their touch. 

By the time they brought him to bed, he had relinquished his firm grip on planning and, indeed, coherent thought. John and Gilbert kissed, sucked, stroked, and fucked him into boneless oblivion. The last thing he remembered, other than unsurpassed pleasure, was John promising to wake him in the morning, and that they would see him off….

>   
>  _Mr. and Mrs. Stevens and Reverend Knox came with him to the harbor. The dock was like a hurricane of bustling movement, but they stood together on the pier in the eye of the storm. "Write to us and tell us how you get on," Mr. Stevens said._
> 
> _"If you need anything…." Mrs. Stevens offered._
> 
> _He muttered that she'd been very kind already, that he was sure he'd be all right. He didn't say that if he needed anything, by the time he wrote to them and they answered, surely, the need would be either past or extreme, and either way they would be unable to provide much in the way of assistance._
> 
> _"Neddy is right nearby in New York," she reminded him. "And your Cousin Ann Lytton. They know you're coming."_
> 
> _"Yes, I look forward to seeing them. Ned, especially. Thank you."_
> 
> _"Don't stand on pride, young man," Mr. Stevens told him quickly. "This town is not sending you to New Jersey to starve for want of allowance. Kortright has set up a fund for you in New York; you can draw on it monthly."_
> 
> _"I understand, sir," he answered, cheeks flushing._
> 
> _Reverend Knox was more easily appeased. The minister shook Alexander's hand and assured him that his future was bright. He promised that the congregation would pray for Alexander's safe crossing and continued health and prosperity. Since Alexander had never had much prosperity, he felt safe in the notion that God would either leave him to his own devices for a while, or at the very least, would afford him time to achieve some prosperity before snatching it away again. He said none of this, of course. Instead, he smiled and nodded and thanked the reverend for his patronage._
> 
> _There seemed little left to do but walk away. He was just about to turn from them and make his way up the gangplank when he saw another figure beyond a pair of stevedores. He couldn't believe his eyes._
> 
> _It was James, standing apart from the others. Alexander came over to him, glad in a way to escape the ebullient clergyman and the almost parental cloying of the Stevenses._
> 
> _"You came," said Alexander with mixed surprise and gladness. "I wasn't sure you'd be able to get away."_
> 
> _James shrugged. "Told Master McNobeny you were leaving today; he damn near shoved me out of the shop, and all. Didn't know as I'd catch you."_
> 
> _"Well--I'm glad." He felt the need to hold himself still lest he engulf his brother in a boyish embrace. He'd been all right, until he saw James on the pier._
> 
> _"Don't forget us all," James said diffidently._
> 
> _"As if I could," Alexander told him. He meant to sound nostalgic but a certain rueful, bitter note could not be disguised. He blamed the fortitude it took to withstand Reverend Knox's well-meaning but overly devout pronunciations. He was trying--he really was. During the hurricane he'd made a bargain with himself, to pay more deference to God if he lived. So far, not only had his life been spared, but it was about to change immeasurably. Still, Knox's prognostications were a pressure he didn't particularly need at the moment. Worse yet, James looked stung, and Alexander regretted his flippant tone._
> 
> _"I did my best for us, you know," James said._
> 
> _"I know. I have no complaint, James. We've both done as we've had to do."_
> 
> _James grunted. "Well. A doctor, is it?"_
> 
> _"I suppose."_
> 
> _"You'll come back and set up a practice and save us all from malaria."_
> 
> __I'm not ever coming back, _Alexander thought, but he didn't dare say it. "That's the plan," he hedged instead._
> 
> _James glanced over at the Stevenses and the Reverend before saying quietly, "It's a stupid plan. Don't come back, Alex, not if you can find something better in the colonies. And why couldn't you? You'll be--"_
> 
> _The coxswain's whistle blew sharply. Alexander looked up and saw that the other passengers were boarding. All the luggage had been taken on, and the crew appeared to be readying to sail._
> 
> _"I'd better get aboard," he said without moving._
> 
> _Abruptly, James crossed the short distance between them and embraced him. Alexander felt a tear escape as he hugged back. "You'll be all right, brother," James said in his ear. "You're a survivor. Wish you hadn't had to learn to be, but, we can't all have what we wish for."_
> 
> _There was something in the way he said it that made Alexander wonder what James really_ did _wish for. But there was no time to ask. He clasped James tightly. "I'll miss you," he said suddenly, and meant it._
> 
> _"Don't forget us," James said again._
> 
> _Alexander's throat tightened. "I shan't. And I'll write, I promise."_
> 
> _James released him and Alexander kissed his cheek as they parted. "Goodbye, James." He turned quickly to pick up the small valise he'd kept with him, and carried it up the gangplank. Aboard, he turned to wave at them all. Then he let a midshipman show him to the cabins. By the time he came back on deck, the ship was under sail, and his farewell party had all gone. Alexander shivered, and it was not just from the ocean breeze. He was sure, without knowing how, that he would never see any of them again._

He woke up with a shudder, sitting up in confusion. It was still dark outside; he was in Lafayette's bed, with Lafayette and Laurens on either side of him. He could still see James in his mind, slightly slouched and self-conscious on the dockside. He gazed down at Laurens, whose arm was flung across him to rest on Lafayette's hip. "It's not the same," Alexander promised them and himself. "I _will_ see you both again. I _will_ come back."

"Hm?" Laurens stirred. "It's not morning yet, dearest," he said softly. "Go back to sleep."

"I've got a better idea," said Alexander. He slid back down on his side, facing John. He snaked his leg between John's and dragged his knee upward into John's groin.

"Mm--what about Gilbert?" John whispered.

"Let him sleep," Alexander commented. "Want you."

John kissed him enthusiastically, then ran his hand down Alexander's chest. They pressed together in the narrow bed. After a few minutes of coition, John smoothed Alexander's hair back and looked into his eyes. "Are you troubled?" he asked.

"About Gates?"

"About us."

Alexander pecked him on the cheek. "No. Yes. Maybe. No. I don't know." He sighed and flipped onto his back. "I wish we had more time."

"We will. There are more important things, though."

"Yes."

They nestled into each other. Gilbert, still somehow fast asleep, turned over and snuggled against Alexander's other shoulder. Alexander opened his arm to let Gilbert cuddle up, and the sleeping man brought his arm across Alexander's chest right over to Johns' waist. John clasped Gilbert's hand and rubbed his forearm languidly, his legs still entwined with Alexander's.

"Did Shrewsbury pack my books?" Alexander asked into the silence.

"You're not going to have time to read," John pointed out.

"You never know. Remind me to check and make sure I've got at least one volume." 

John grunted and closed his eyes again. A few seconds later, he offered, "Oh. Take my cloak, will you?"

"No need," Alexander asserted.

"Ham. It's getting colder and you're heading north."

"On horseback. A cloak will catch the wind and make it even colder. Have you ever seen me wear one--apart from a midnight run to the latrines?"

"No, because you don't own one. But you'll need it."

He shook his head. "It's just a nuisance."

"Stubborn."

"And you're not?"

" _You are both stubborn. And loud_ ," Gilbert muttered, eyes still closed. "Alexandre, you'll take my greatcoat. I've anozzer cloak. _Problème résolu_. Now stop--bickering." He found the word with delight. "Alexandre, it's nearly time."

He was right. Pre-dawn light had begun to coat the room in a grey haze. Alexander squeezed his eyes shut and buried his forehead in the crook of Gilbert's collarbone. "Don't want to get up," he muttered. "Have to get up."

"Not yet," John whined, closing on him for another kiss. 

"If I'm to make it to Morristown and Coryell's Ferry tonight, I've got to go, love." He wriggled out from between the two other men and began to dress.

"We'll get up, too," Laurens insisted, pulling Lafayette out of bed with him. 

They made sure to say their private farewells before leaving the room. They kept things brief, but still, Alexander already felt behind schedule when they tramped down the stairs.

Sure enough, Gibbs was waiting, dressed, shaved, and ready, with Alexander's fresh orders in his hand. "You already know?" he asked. "I came to wake you but you weren't in your room."

"My fault," Lafayette told the other aide. "Laurens and I were still downstairs when 'Is Excellency informed 'Ammie of his task. I insisted 'Am take a drink wis me, and Laurens, too, to wish 'im farewell."

"One drink led to another," Laurens supplied effortlessly. "Be gentle with him, Gibby: he had a long night."

"Oh, we'll be all right," Hamilton said, smiling weakly to help the lie take hold. "Nothing like a good, steady horseback ride to shake off one's complaints."

Gibbs kept his teasing to a minimum but seemed to believe the story. He rode along as far as Coryell's Ferry, but the next morning, he returned to camp, leaving Hamilton to go on alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Hamilton takes two Generals to school, while Laurens takes care of business in camp....
> 
> French Translations:  
> rapidement - quickly  
> Il n'y a personne d'autre qui correspond à votre brillance tactique--sauf moi, bien sûr - No one else matches your tactical brilliance--except me, of course  
> Problème résolu - problem solved


	15. Lesson Number 15: A Negotiation

Hamilton pushed his pace as much as he dared, reaching Fish Kill by the third day on the road. Driving himself hard had several advantages. It accomplished his mission that much sooner; it gave him little time to dwell on being away from Laurens and Lafayette; and it left him so exhausted when he did stop for the night, that it was no particular hardship to eat a simple supper and collapse into dreamless sleep. When he did take time to write, it was to the General to keep him apprised on his progress. 

He was working on such a letter in a tavern hard by General Putnam's headquarters when he heard his name.

"Is that Captain Hamilton?" the speaker called.

He looked up. "Aaron Burr! Sir," he said with a broad smile. "It's Colonel, now. Won't you join me?"

"With pleasure," Burr said, treating Hamilton to one of his infamous smiles. They ordered more beer and caught up a bit. 

"I haven't seen you since Trenton," Hamilton said, "but I heard you were with Colonel Malcolm now?"

"Yes, second in command. You?"

Hamilton quaffed his beer. "I'm on General Washington's staff," he said diffidently. 

Burr's eyes widened. "Really. I...wouldn't think you'd get along well with His Excellency."

"What does that mean?" Hamilton bristled.

"Calm down, man, I don't mean anything by it. Certainly no imputation on either of you. Only that your temperaments are so different. Anyway, I'm surprised you didn't find a way to get a command of your own. You had an artillery company when I saved it back in Harlem. I would have thought you'd come up through the battery."

Reddening, Hamilton tried to shrug off the embarrassment. "It was down to fewer than thirty men not long after Harlem Heights," he admitted. "I could have taken on more recruits but--His Excellency requested me, specifically. I felt it would be a mistake to refuse."

It was Burr's turn to redden a bit, though Hamilton was not sure why. Belatedly, he remembered that Tilghman had mentioned Burr's brief appointment with the General, before Hamilton's arrival. He cleared his throat. "I'll grant it isn't an easy post, and not as desirable as a command, but it's one's duty to be of use."

Burr smiled again and offered a toast to their usefulness to the War. The only hint of offense that remained was in a glint in his eye, though that quickly turned more mischievous as they completed their tankards and Burr signaled the barmaid for another round.

"So, if you're attached to our Commander-in-Chief, what brings you here?"

"I'm on my way to Albany," he explained. "But perhaps you can help me. I spoke to Colonel Morgan last night at New Windsor and urged him to speed his regiment to General Washington, but Col. Morgan wasn't certain his intelligence of the other forces was up to date. Do you know whom I can see regarding the disposition of General Putnam's troops? "

"General Putnam? Well…of course. I can take you to Lieutenant Colonel Hughes."

"You know the General's staff?"

Burr laughed. "Intimately. Finish your drink and we'll go."

~

Burr was beloved of both Putnam and Putnam's staff, it seemed, and his acquaintance with Hamilton made it much easier for Hamilton to learn how Putnam had planned to deploy his men. Hearing the General's intention from Colonel Hughes, Hamilton instantly asked to speak to Putnam himself. Putnam at first was not terribly forthcoming, but as they spoke, he grew more amenable to Hamilton's pleas. Consequently he agreed to send several hundred of his men and more than two brigades of militia--not the same as regular forces, to be sure, but at least better than nothing. The only difficulty was how quickly some of the militia's terms would expire, but Hamilton had a few days to think about that. Following their interview, he wrote hastily to Washington to apprise him, while Hughes found him fresh horses.

On his way north, he rehearsed the possible arguments Gates might make against detaching the battalions. For each objection, Hamilton devised and crafted each response and then carefully honed the replies to his best estimation of what Gates would find most compelling. He tried to account for how Washington would respond if he himself were present--but he did not rely on that tactic overmuch, knowing as he did that the Great Man was far from Gates' favorite officer. In fact, he reasoned that if he invoked the General too much, too often or too authoritatively, Gates might well grow more fractious, rather than more obedient.

It had been good to see Burr again. Running into the taciturn man had reminded him of all his acquaintances from New York and New Jersey before the war had broken out. It wasn't a coincidence that he kept thinking of them, either, as he traversed country that he had traveled many times since first arriving on the mainland. When he stopped that night, he sent a letter ahead to Robert Troup, who, last he had heard, was serving with Gates. 

By early morning on the 5th, he arrived at Clauverick and hired a guide to take him the rest of the way in. The ferry brought them over and they arrived at Gates' camp around noon. On arriving, he met with Gates's primary aide, a man named Wilkinson.

"Is Colonel Troup in camp?" he asked after transmitting his orders.

"On an errand. Do you know him?"

"Yes, we were at school together," Hamilton said noncommittally. He did not want to lean too heavily on his background with Robert; better to hold it in reserve if he needed an additional card to play.

"Well, he'll be back this afternoon, I expect. Please wait here and I'll tell General Gates you've come to see him."

Gates barely kept him waiting, which he initially took as an excellent sign--but it quickly became clear that the brigadier's hospitality was not matched by his willingness to cooperate.

"If His Excellency requires more troops, let him draw them from the southward," Gates had said blithely. "We are by no means secure in this region."

"Sir, I was given to understand that Burgoyne has made a complete capitulation. Is this not so?"

"Burgoyne has but we cannot confirm that Clinton was with him when he surrendered. He may still try to punch through our lines."

Hamilton found this possibility highly unlikely, but Gates wasn't done. "Should you deprive us of troops as you propose, and Clinton makes bold, you might single-handedly expose the finest arsenal in America to total destruction. From all I hear, you're an ambitious young man. You'll do yourself no favors if you rob the northern forces of their shield."

"Begging the General's pardon, I am here on behalf of His Excellency, and it is his orders I am carrying. My personal ambition has no bearing on my message."

"Well, let's say for the moment that's so," Gates said with utter condescension, "you will nonetheless agree that it's unwise to remove those forces which are all that protect New England from depredation and savagery."

"Does Clinton have the available numbers to divert so far east, sir?" Hamilton asked, trying to keep sarcasm from his tone.

Gates scowled. "We cannot say for sure what Clinton's plan is, boy; that's why we need the troops to remain. Besides, it's clear neither you nor His Excellency have considered the roads in this territory. It would be impossible to bring artillery and stores down before winter--and speaking of winter, I mean to retake Ticonderoga before we must retire the field. If you conscript the larger part of my resources, that will be impossible."

"Ticonderoga is not an objective necessary to the current campaign," Hamilton answered in surprise. "What purpose does it serve, sir, to retake it at this juncture?"

"His Excellency's short-sightedness is legendary," Gates observed, "but I cannot imagine he would presume to tell those of us so far from his theatre that we are not empowered to make such campaigns as we deem prudent."

Hamilton chose his words with care. "His Excellency is, of course, prepared to entertain justification for the necessity of recovering Ticonderoga. Perhaps you will enlighten me as to its significance in the scope of Howe's or Clinton's plans."

"Its significance is obvious to anyone with half a brain," Gates told him. He then proceeded to draw out a scenario as unlikely as it was self-aggrandizing. The only positive aspect of Gates's hot air was that it gave Hamilton time to gather his wits--and his arguments. He took Gates's positions apart, point by point, as delicately as he could. After nearly two hours, Gates was unmoved and growing impatient.

"Very well, General, if you are wholly convinced that you require these resources at your disposal, then it is not General Washington's intention to deplete your defenses. Is there, however, no provision you can make at all? Can you spare any troops on behalf of those soldiers to the southward who are in desperate need of reinforcement?"

Gates offered one brigade. While Hamilton hated the concession, realizing that Gates' reasons for retaining his troops were specious, he judged that he had gone as far as he could in a first step. He thanked the General and brought the interview to a close, but he wasn't done.

It was particularly difficult in Gates' own territory, where Gates clearly thought he stood on political high ground. There were actions Hamilton could take without arousing any suspicion, and he set about them with his usual tenacity. First, he begged from Wilkinson a place to write to Washington. Wilkinson showed him to a snug office and left him alone there while he attended to other duties. Hamilton spent a long time on the letter, filling more pages than he had anticipated. Gates's veiled (and not-so-veiled) insults and his obstructions annoyed Hamilton anew in the recounting. He hoped Washington would not accuse him of giving up too easily, but if Putnam made good on his promise (and assuming Washington did not disapprove of _that_ initiative, either), then he would still be providing 7,500 men--even if one-third of them were militia. Next, he wrote another letter to Putnam, beseeching him even more urgently to send Washington his available troops, on the assumption that Gates would never yield any more than he had already offered. He then left the office to seek an express courier. After dispatching the letters, he asked Wilkinson and the other aides where he could find General Patterson or his men. He hoped that Gates had not yet told anyone of his agreement, for if he had, surely, Patterson would be expecting scrutiny. He wanted to observe the man's troops without warning. His hunch paid off: Wilkinson was unsuspecting of Hamilton's aim in inspecting the brigade which was about to be ordered south. 

He was rather appalled at what he found and made bold to inquire around other areas of the camp. He found Glover's men, then Nixon's, and took stock of both. He even had a chance to speak to one of Glover's lieutenants, who seemed confident in both his commander and his company. The conversation confirmed his assessments. Once he completed his tour, he immediately returned to Gates's headquarters. He wrote a note to Gates in rather stern terms, requiring that he name another brigade to supplement Patterson's. His preference was Glover's, having found them in better discipline, and he took care to lean heavily on the implication that Glover's brigade was also more ready for travel.

He also made some discreet inquiries and learned that General Arnold had a broken leg as a direct result of his action in taking Breymann's redoubt. Hamilton felt some vindication that he'd correctly interpreted their reports of the battle--but he did not dare a visit to the convalescent. If Gates got wind of it, he would likely grind his heels in further and might even accuse Hamilton of fomenting conspiracy or some similar ridiculous charge. More than once, Hamilton overheard comments among the men that made it obvious that Gates believed he was ascendant over Washington--and from his perspective, it wasn't too surprising he thought so. Everywhere there were signs Gates was maneuvering himself to make a bid to replace Washington. Moreover, many of his men unabashedly expressed confidence that soon he would succeed.

But Hamilton was not here to investigate Gates's rivalry, much as he longed to snoop around a little more. He could not afford any action that might jeopardize his primary objectives. So, he had nothing left to do but wait for Gates. He returned to the General's headquarters, found a chair, and pulled out the first volume of Postlethwayt. Not long afterward, a familiar chuckle sounded at his elbow.

"Should have known I'd find you reading."

Hamilton looked up at the smiling, round face of Robert Troup. With an answering grin, Hamilton rose. "Robbie!" he said with open affection. They laughed and clasped hands, pulling each other in for a hard hug.

"You look well," Hamilton told his friend. Troup said much the same, speaking over him.

"I got your letter. I wish I'd been here to greet you, but--"

"No, it's fine."

"Are you staying the night?"

"Likely." He was about to suggest that he and Robert go somewhere more private, if they could, but his former roommate seemed to read his mind.

"Look, I'm on my way to Albany--some of the lads have an invitation to dine tonight with General Schuyler and his family. You'll come, as my guest? We can go to my lodgings and catch up beforehand."

"You don't lodge with the General?" Hamilton asked.

"I do, but I've also a room at the Grey Fox. A few of the lads went in on it together--so we can…conduct personal interviews," he finished suggestively. Hamilton chuckled; Troup had been quite the customer in the Holy Ground when they'd been at school, too. It seemed Albany had no shortage of female company for its soldiers.

"Say no more," Hamilton said. "Can you leave right away? I can wait if--"

"Just let me tell Wilkie and make sure, but I bet it will be fine." He leaned in. "Between you and me, there's not much to do up here at present. But don't quote me."

"No, certainly not," said Hamilton. But he filed away the intelligence for a future debate with Gates.

Within minutes, Troup returned. "All set," he said. "I've even got you a fresh horse. By God, it's good to see you, man."

"You, too." Troup was always barrel-chested, somewhat running to fat, yet the army had turned some of his flab to muscle. He looked more trim than Hamilton had ever seen him. He hoped it wasn't due to a lack of provision; he remembered how well Robert had loved his victuals.

"Colonel Hamilton," Wilkinson interrupted, arriving on the scene. "Before you go, the General wishes to see you again." From the set of Wilkinson's jaw, it seemed, Gates had not been asking Hamilton to come and have a drink.

"Yes, of course," he answered.

"I'll wait," Troup said. He walked along with Hamilton and Wilkinson as they returned to Gates' office.

Hamilton braced himself for a tidal wave as soon as the door shut behind him. Gates did not disappoint.

"You are the sort of impudent, underhanded, cocksure little prick that represents everything wrong with Washington's army," Gates started in. "Do you think you can presume to dictate to me how to dispatch my own troops? What possible right have you--what experience--what, in short, sir, do you imagine gives you the temerity to tell me how to run my war?"

" _Your_ war?" Hamilton shot back.

"Is anyone else winning it on our side? No? Well, then. Have you any defense for the implications in your letter? If you think--" he continued without giving Hamilton time to edge in his answer-- "that I am intimidated by a pup like you, or that I will believe you if you tell me you did not mean to accuse me of incompetence, you will find yourself in a world of regret, young man."

"If the General believes he has been accused of incompetence, then it must be because he understands he is not responding to his commander in a manner that suggests a full comprehension of the import of the southern campaign," Hamilton spat out. "You would selfishly withhold troops for yourself to pit them against a target with no current strategic value, when to the south, General Washington is called upon to stop the British advance from Philadelphia and New York with a third of the resources he requires. And to reinforce him, you would, again in your own self-interest, send him a shiftless half-brigade that is incapable of providing succor or support. If the tables were turned, General, you would be justified in leveling anger and disappointment, but as you are the one with a duty to uphold, then by God, the only action that will assuage you is to do that duty."

"Why, you insolent little bastard," Gates fumed. "I have explained, when I was under no obligation to tell you, why I require the brigades to remain in my service. You are too hypnotized by the dazzling majesty of your precious General Washington to see that he would draw my victorious troops in order to bolster his own position."

"Sir, I assure you, my opinion of General Washington has not the slightest bearing on the matter. He _is_ my commander, and yours as well. He importunes you to comply and I see no legitimate reason among those you have enumerated that should induce you to anything but faithful accommodation, insofar as you are able to support him. The war in this region is all but ended; you certainly are entitled to retain a protective force, but there is every reason to send as many as you can to aid the southward. If we can meet the enemy before the winter--we could win, sir. We could win. That's the long and short of it. And by withholding those troops, we are likely to draw this conflict out by at least another season's fighting, by which time the British may well bring ships, guns, men of their own--where we have no such sources of reinforcement."

"You have said that your General wishes in no way to impede my judgment of this theatre?" Gates seethed.

Hamilton swallowed. "Yes, that is...true," he admitted.

"Then in my judgment, Colonel Hamilton," Gates countered, leaning on his rank as if he might strip him of it any moment, "I require the troops to remain."

"Sir, your own commanders are confident--"

"Which commanders?" Gates spat.

"--I would rather not say, for fear they will face discipline they do not deserve. But I spoke with several here in camp and the feeling is widespread that one brigade will amply provide all the additional force for any action you may encounter here, until more militia can be raised."

Gates glared at him, breathing heavily. "You sneak," he growled finally, low and menacing. "You little sneaking, lying bastard of a _sneak_."

"I judged it my duty, sir, to ascertain the nature of the troops you agreed to commit to our cause. I am sure your honor cannot fault an officer who undertakes his duty with all the power in his possession, sir."

"Get. Out. Get out, you whoreson bastard." A fleck of spittle remained on his lip as Gates stabbed his finger toward his door.

Stiffly, his eyes shining with murderous rage, Hamilton took his time and saluted with decorum. He turned perfectly and marched out.

Troup was waiting, but Wilkinson, it seemed, had beaten a quick retreat when he heard his commander shouting inside. 

"Ham." Troup made no move to touch him, but his sympathy was palpable. "Don't take it to heart. He can be a bastard himself, when he's in a lather. He'll calm down and be more reasonable in a day or so."

Hamilton's lip trembled--not with suppressed shame, but in impotent rage. "Does he know?" he asked Troup, voice cracking.

"No, I doubt it. Probably just said it to be an ass. He just hoped you'd lose your temper so he could accuse you of insubordination."

"I assumed that was his goal, but--one can never be sure. Thank you," he said, trying to summon a smile and failing. He could not have challenged Gates, even if the other had intended the insult to prompt a duel. No matter the provocation, Washington would certainly have condemned him for rash action, for improper conduct, and for complete inability to accomplish his mission, in the bargain. As it was, Washington was likely to hold him accountable for totally botching the mission and fanning Gates's fire. His cheeks felt hot and his cravat seemed to pinch his neck uncomfortably.

"You need a drink," Troup said astutely. "Come on. Let's get out of here so you can tell me what's really going on."

~

"Colonel Laurens, there's been musket shots heard near the Island, sir," a sergeant burst in to report.

"Good God, what now?" Laurens asked. He followed the sergeant to the scene. Since Hamilton's departure, they had moved to the harbor at Upper Dublin. Earlier that day, General Varnum had taken note that a British ship, the _Somerset_ , had run aground in her attempt to sail upriver. The cannon fire was still going on; Laurens found it incredible anyone could even hear the muskets above the din. Together they rushed to the embankment, where some dozen or so militia were engaged in fire with perhaps twice as many Redcoats and a handful of Hessians across the water. 

As Laurens arrived, one of the militia cried out an obscene jeer and turned his backside to the enemy. He wiggled it suggestively to the encouragement of his friends.

"Take care that doesn't get shot, Corporal," Laurens said, doing his best to sound unimpressed by their displays. The militia made a tolerable show of embarrassment and arranged themselves in what might loosely have been called parade. "Dress that line," Laurens insisted, waiting for them to improve their parade. "Well. What is the meaning of all this, then?"

The soldiers gave their report, albeit with much ribald humor and no little lack of discipline. It was, he had to admit, a rather witty anecdote, one he would enjoy telling Hamilton when he returned. 

"Who's your commander?" he asked.

"General Potter, sir," said their spokesman. 

"Well, gentlemen, I don't know how General Potter maintains his troops at home in Rhode Island, but here in the regular army we require some self-restraint." Laurens admonished them against wasting their ammunition and lectured them lightly on the values of comportment. He reminded them that the musketry raised an alarm in the camp, as the enemy were close enough that some striking party might have been plausible. But he took care not to lean too heavily on another man's company, and militia at that, so after a short tongue-lashing, he sent the sergeant with them to the mess to find a quarter-ration of rum apiece for their bravery and pluck.

When he returned to headquarters, the noise that greeted him put a hitch in his step. It was the distinctive giggle of young ladies. Sure enough, when he stepped into the parlor, several of the lads--and Lafayette, along with duBuysson and Gimat--were entertaining seven or eight women in fine style. The women ranged in age from a young girl who appeared in her teens to a plump matriarch who must have been in her fifties, or even older. They were all exceedingly jolly, considering their circumstances.

"...Of course, we really have no alternative but to seek refuge farther into the country. Though one fears the frontier for entirely different reasons," the matron was saying when he came in.

"'Is Excellency regrets ze necessity of displacing such lovely creatures as yourselves," Lafayette said gallantly, topping off her sherry. "I am certain zat you will find 'ospitable accommodation in 'Arrisburg."

"It couldn't be half so hospitable as here," said one of the younger ladies, followed by a spate of giggles from her two closest compatriots. "I mean, one feels ever so safe surrounded by such handsome and gallant gentlemen."

"Mercy, Lizzie! I declare you'll turn these poor men's heads and they'll wish to forsake their duties and accompany you into the wilderness!" More laughter.

"Ah, 'ere is Laurens!" Gimat said brightly, glimpsing him where he hovered outside the door. 

"Good afternoon, ladies," he said politely. He'd worry about a suitable revenge on Gimat later. "I wasn't aware we had such delightful guests, or I should have hurried back before now."

They simpered prettily, as he intended. Tilghman briefly explained. It was a story they'd heard before. Just yesterday another caravan of ladies and their children arrived at the camp. They entreated General Washington for papers that would allow them to pass unmolested deeper into the frontier, away from the fighting and the occupied cities. He had acquiesced, on the condition that on no account should they attempt to return to Philadelphia until the territory had been safely reclaimed. Though their own resources were being stretched close to the limits, the General had provided a meal for the travelers from his own purse, and sent them on their way. There was no reason not to think these ladies would receive the same treatment.

Introductions being made, Laurens tried to extricate himself as quickly as was polite, but Tilghman and McHenry beat him to it. They claimed that they had been too long from their work. Laurens wished to make the same excuse but he was left somewhat awkwardly trying to make conversation. Lafayette was no help.

"Monsieur le Marquis, weren't you just saying that you wished to review the progress of the redoubts on the eastern fields?"

" _Non_ ," Lafayette said blithely, barely shifting his attention from Miss Bartholemew (whom the others had called "Peggy"). 

"I believe you said distinctly that you had concerns about the fortifications," Laurens pressed. 

" _Non_ , you mus' be mistaken," Lafayette replied. He smiled mischievously. "I 'ave nussing to do at present but gaze on zis loveliness."

Lafayette was lucky he was in mixed company, for with great effort, Laurens suppressed his impulse to wipe the smirk off the Frenchman's face. He was taking far too much glee in deliberately missing Laurens' hint. 

"What's a redoubt?" one of the ladies asked.

"It's an earthwork enclosure or barrier, ma'am," Laurens said. He might not have been able to extricate himself gracefully, but at least the question gave him an opportunity to make conversation for a few more minutes. Being careful not to divulge any strategic details, he described the creation of breastworks, fortifications, and trenches to create areas of cover and entrapment on a battlefield.

"Laurens, you bore the ladies!" Captain Gibbs announced. "There's no need for any concern about the redoubts, anyway. The preparations are well in hand. We are much better engaged here, inspecting _these_ breastworks."

Gibbs' shocking compliment was met, as expected, with that odd mixture of stern disapproval and titillated delight. It was the perfect sort of repartee that Laurens found stressful, for invariably the game would become who could devise the prettier, more ribald--yet, forgivably flattering--comment. He always found himself torturing either the language or his company, falling short for fear of going too far and giving offense. Alexander, he knew, found the pastime infinitely diverting. Words and wordplay were his element in any circumstances, and where flirtation and ladies were involved, his reputation among the lads was unparalleled.

"It's a pity Col. Hamilton is not here," he heard himself saying. "If you ladies think that Capt. Gibbs turns a phrase, I assure you, he has nothing on our Little Lion."

"That is sadly true!" Gibbs agreed. "Of all our brothers, Ham and Mac are our romantic poets. It is not worth disputing. Moreover, they cannot resist a pretty face. Flowers such as yourselves delight and distract our Hammie in particular. In no time at all, he would make himself the darling of your company--and so Laurens, I disagree: it's much the better for us lads that he is _not_ here, to pluck the whole garden as his own personal bouquet!"

More laughter. Gibbs was in rare form. Laurens caught Lafayette's eye, but the other was grinning with mirth. He definitely deserved Laurens' revenge later, Laurens decided.

"Shall we have the pleasure of meeting this paragon, then?" Mrs. Napier, the eldest, asked.

"I fear not, madam," Dick Meade said. "He is from camp."

"Then that is a pity, indeed," Miss Bartholomew remarked. "It is truly shameful, the war's effects on our countryside and cities, but for a young lady, perhaps the worst crime is that the men's desire to defend their country deprives us of their--personal protection." She batted her lashes at Laurens. He compared her coquettish simpering with Martha's clear-eyed, straightforward behavior, and consoled himself that, if he had to be married, at least it was not to a cat such as this girl. He was certain her purring concealed more vicious claws than he ever cared to see.

Her comment required some reply, all the same, but Laurens was too disgusted to craft one. He was saved at that moment, not by anyone in the party, but by the entry of General Washington. They jumped to attention as he came in. Gibbs presented him to Mrs. Napier, then the rest of her charges. The General dispatched them tidily, assured them of dinner if they were willing to tarry for it, and promised to provide them papers of passage, just as Laurens had known he would.

Washington's arrival also gave them the excuse they needed to return to work, but as he followed Gibbs and Meade back into the dining room they were using, Lafayette touched his sleeve. "'Ow do I know you will find an excuse not to join ze ladies for supper tonight?" he asked.

"Was it that obvious?"

" _Non_ ," Lafayette assured him, "not to anyone 'oo does not know you. It only seemed you were...shy."

"Fine, good. I'm all right with shy," he muttered. "I can't abide a coquette," he explained, eyes rolling. 

Lafayette shrugged. "'Er looks are all she 'as. Why not let 'er enjoy zem? Besides," he continued, stepping forward just a bit closer than strictly proper, "I've never before seen you unwilling to flit. Er… flirt." He wagged his eyebrow and proffered a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Could it be zat you miss 'im? I do, too, _cher_. But zat's no reason to ignore pleasure, when it presents itself."

"It's a lot of miles," Laurens pointed out. "Hard riding all the way. What if his health fails? What if he's captured?"

"He'll be fine." 

"But we haven't heard anything," Laurens fretted. It wasn't strictly true. Gibbs knew first-hand that Hamilton had been fine as far as Coryell's Ferry. 

Some god or saint must have been listening, because as they stood in the foyer, a Colonel walked in and presented himself, accompanied by a guardsman. "Colonel Morgan, reporting to General Washington."

"Your orders?" Laurens said after returning his salute.

"Yes, of course." Morgan dove into his coat and produced a page. 

Laurens opened the paper and instantly felt his heart race. "These are from Colonel Hamilton!" he proclaimed. "Where did you come upon him?"

"Half a day's ride west of General Putnam's camp," Morgan explained. He went on to say that they had discussed General Putnam's forces and supplies, and that Hamilton had written out orders on the spot to speed Morgan's company on their way. He hazarded that Hamilton meant to visit General Putnam, as well, to see what he might be able to siphon away from the commander. It was typical of Alexander, Laurens thought, to seize opportunities wherever they lurked. 

"The General will be glad of your assistance, Colonel, but will General Putnam miss you?"

"No. He had already dispatched me here to find out for him where the army will quarter for the winter and report back. I can send him a letter, telling him I've been asked to attach myself here."

"We don't even know where we'll quarter yet," Laurens replied. "And Col. Hamilton? Was he well when you left him?"

"Fine, that I could see," said Morgan. Laurens swallowed any further inquiry; of course, Colonel Morgan didn't know Hamilton, so how could he be expected to note how he fared? Besides, he'd seen Hamilton at the beginning of his journey, not the end.

"Oh, I also have dispatches," Morgan remembered. He pulled a satchel off his shoulder. "Here's the mailbag."

~

Hours later, Laurens leaned back to stretch, feeling strangely lighter than he had in days. As always, the arrival of more mail meant new orders to issue, letters to copy, and all manner of work to be done. The bright lining had been that it gave him every reason to excuse himself from supper with the party of ladies. He shuffled through his collection of papers again, pulling out the orders that Morgan had carried and that he had asked to hold onto for the moment. Hamilton's neat, flowing script spelled out the terse command. He was alive and well--or had been, anyway, three days ago. It seemed silly to worry so much about a grown man, an experienced shot and an expert rider like Alexander, but it wasn't the perils of the road that made Laurens anxious, so much as it was his own understanding of Hamilton's character. He would push himself to the point of exhaustion, if that's what it took, in his zeal to carry out his mission. On impulse, John folded the paper and tucked it into his breast pocket.

"Laurens," Lafayette appeared in the doorway. "It's late. 'Ave you eaten?"

"I had a little bread and broth; I'm fine," Laurens answered. 

A grunt was all Lafayette needed to express his opinion of whether he found that meal sufficient. He came over to the table and perched half his butt on its surface. His leg swung a little, like a boy's. "You were missed at supper," he said. The tone was neutral but that damnably attractive smile danced in his eyes. 

"By Miss Bartholomew, no doubt," Laurens snickered. 

"By me," said Lafayette. He leaned forward. "Are you quite occupied? Let's go before ze ozzers return."

Laurens patted Lafayette's knee. "You're kind, Gilbert, but--we both know that Alex is the glue holding us together. You don't have to--"

"John. I don' _'ave_ to do anysing. I could wait 'ere for ze Général and 'e would talk wiz me of 'is concerns, late into ze night, per'aps, but I sink you need zat more zan 'e does, tonight. I don' seek you out because 'Am isn't 'ere. I seek you for your own sake." He caught Laurens' hand. "If you would razzer not, zat's anozzer matter. But I believed we were all equals in this, _n'est-ce pas_?"

"Yes," Laurens said, his voice gravelly with unchecked emotion. He cleared his throat. "I just--I assumed you only--wanted--when all three of us are…. Or--to keep Alex--"

"I know. I suspected as mush. But no." He hopped off the table, Laurens' hand still in his. He folded his arm to his heart, so that the back of Lauren's hand rested against its steady beat. "Do you wish to wait for 'im?"

"I--that could be another week," Laurens observed.

" _Oui_. Do you wish to wait?"

Laurens hesitated. He _did_ , in some ways, want to maintain some brand of fidelity to Alexander. In his mind, it had made sense that they would only host Lafayette together. On the other hand...Alexander and Lafayette had been lovers already, and he and Lafayette had never been together without Alexander also participating. How would it differ? And would Alexander interpret their liaison as a breach of trust? No, he decided, if they were all of equal status in this _ménage_ , as Lafayette termed it, then they should all have the opportunity to engage in one-to-one relations, as well as all together. For certain, he wanted to continue the privilege of having Alex to himself some of the time. It was only fair that he extend the same rights to both Alexander and Lafayette, as well. And in all honesty, if he imagined having Lafayette to himself....

"Let's go," he said. He let Lafayette propel him out of his seat and followed him to his chamber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Alexander meets someone who will (eventually) change his life....
> 
> No new French this chapter!
> 
> But, historical inaccuracy alert: Of course, it does appear that Captain Gibbs went with Hamilton all the way to Albany, since the only record of the trip (apart from a number of Hamilton's letters) exists in Gibbs' expense report. However, Hamilton's letters certainly make it seem like he was alone! (And it's better that way, dramatically.) But I have figured out a way to repair the damage to history in future chapters, I think. (A more challenging proposition is explaining just how many ways Alex with back and forth trying to get troops to Washington while he was simultaneously DYING of a fever and rheumatic pains....Jesus, Alex. Sit still for a day, will you? Seriously, I would love it if someone actually mapped his route on this massive road trip, because I am convinced Gibbs padded the report or something.)
> 
> Anyway, a status update: I will try to get one more chapter updated this week, but I will be out of town (with NO access to speak of) from 11 March through the 20th, so if I don't get to it, there will be no updates until the last half of the month. There have been some AWESOME fics lately, so you shouldn't miss mine too much, I hope! (Actually, I hope you all miss it so much that you feel life is just not worth living without MOAR! But, I don't really expect anyone to die from lack of update, and I would be sad if it really happened. Flattered, but sad.) I continue to love everyone in this bar! Thank you all so much for tipping this story over 200 kudos this week!


	16. Lesson Number 16: A Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings in this chapter! For slavery and treatment of slaves (non-violent but not particularly nice: period-typical). Also, a slave character speaks in dialect.

"To be honest, I'm a bit embarrassed to be presented to General Schuyler like this," Hamilton said over his razor. 

"Nonsense, he'll be glad of news from the southward," Troup assured him, looking at him in the polished mirror. He leaned back against the headboard of his bed, ankles crossed, smoking his pipe.

"To be sure, but--when he lost Ticonderoga, I was outspokenly critical of him."

"So were many. I think you should meet him; I've a feeling your opinion of him will improve."

"It certainly cannot suffer in comparison to your General Gates," Hamilton muttered, earning a bark of laughter from Troup.

"Indeed, compared to Granny Gates, Philip Schuyler is a veritable Hannibal Barca." He shrugged. "Well, you've met him, you've seen what he can be like. From everything I hear, your General's no walk down a country lane, either."

"Mine has my respect, at least," Hamilton said quietly. He scraped the blade over the troublesome spot under his lower lip. 

"But not your love?"

Hamilton frowned. "It's not our love that His Excellency expects. Only our duty to him."

It was to Troup's credit that his disposition never took offense. He chuckled. "I do my duty to Gates, of course, but he doesn't half make it difficult. I hope he comes to his senses, Ham, I really do. Patterson's brigade, of all the troops he could have detached for you. Despicable. And you know he's campaigning against Washington."

"It's suspected, yes. He sends his reports directly to Congress now." He flattened his upper lip to shave it, growing increasingly uncomfortable with Troup's easy contempt toward his commander.

"Don't I know it! We've tried to tell him what a colossal misstep that could be. It's well you're coming to meet General Schuyler, Ham--he'll be an ally for you against Gates. He might even write to Congress himself."

"Robert, stop," Hamilton insisted, whirling around. "I know you're trying to help but your position demands a certain circumspection. The wrong person overhearing you might take your attitude for disloyalty." Unbidden, he thought of the captain who had turned venomous against General Stephen. He did not wish anyone to perceive his friend a similar sort of snake.

"All right, all right," said Troup with a dismissive handwave. "Will you tell me what's really troubling you, then? Aside from Gates behaving so disgracefully, and your worry over getting the brigades, that is."

Hamilton hesitated. He longed to speak even more candidly with Robert, but given the other's willingness to throw his own commander to the wolves, he did not dare discuss the situation further. While Robert could possibly give him real leverage against Gates, the temptation to use it would be too great, and Gates' ability to finger Robert as the source was too patent. Buying time, he bent over the washbasin to splash his face clean, patted it dry with the towel. 

"Best not," he said with real regret as he came to stand. "Not because I don't trust you, or because I don't appreciate your helpfulness already, but because I don't wish to put you in a potentially compromising situation."

"Well. If you like, I can contrive to give you time alone with General Schuyler. You could ask his opinion."

"No. Thank you."

Troup puffed his pipe and regarded Hamilton contemplatively. "Your stubborn spine hasn't changed, I see. Determined to do everything the hard way."

Alexander shook his head. "The proper way," he corrected. He smoothed his hair and adjusted the queue ribbon's swallow-tails. "I suppose I'm ready." He spread his hands for Robert's opinion.

"Perfectly acceptable. Right," Troup said amiably. He kicked his feet off the bed and knocked his pipe bowl out against his heel. On the wall by the window, their greatcoats hung on pegs. He glanced out as he grabbed his. "Looks like it might snow tonight," he announced. "Better wear your coat--it's quite handsome, by the way, did Mulligan send it?"

"No. Have you heard from him?" Hamilton asked instead, accepting the coat.

"He's still in New York, with all those Redcoats. Why he didn't get out when he had the chance…."

Hamilton knew why, but said only, "I imagine it was difficult to abandon his shop. I think he sent Elizabeth to her mother's, though."

They chatted of earlier days and old friends all the way to their dinner engagement. Hamilton mentioned running into Aaron Burr, which gave Troup a laugh. "Burr, that great idiot! One of Putnam's, eh? Well, I'll be damned, he's actually in the fight. I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd found a way to sit out the whole war." 

The Schuyler mansion was a large brick affair in a Georgian style with an approach that managed to be impressive while still homey and inviting. It was decidedly grand, but scaffolds stood along one wall and large canvas tarpaulins were held over one roof corner with heavy ropes. "They've been rebuilding since the battle," Troup explained as they rode up. "At least Burgoyne has moved on--do you know, General Schuyler allowed him to stay, even after he'd put the place to the torch?"

"Generous," Hamilton agreed.

In addition to Hamilton and Troup, Schuyler had invited General Glover, his aide Colonel Winston, and two other junior officers who, it seemed, had connections to the family. There were also two married couples from Albany, Elias and Polly Cahill, and James and Rebecca Lockwood. General Schuyler's wife, his second daughter Elizabeth, and eldest son Philip, made up the remainder of the party. Hamilton learned that both General Arnold and General Lincoln were also guests in the house, convalescing, but their injuries prevented them joining the others.

Troup, it turned out, had sent a note ahead to their hosts, for there wasn't a hint of awkwardness that he'd brought along a chum. Before dinner was served, Hamilton indeed revised his opinion of Philip Schuyler--the man was both insightful and excellent. Schuyler was clearly still burning from the way that Gates had stolen his victories at Saratoga. He rehashed the events around Ticonderoga, providing Hamilton for the first time with a different, and clearer, perspective on the affair. Then he asked Hamilton for Washington's current situation. Hamilton saw no difficulty explaining the opportunities they had to the south. He concluded by stressing to Schuyler and to Generals Glover and Winston that those opportunities hinged on greater numbers to execute them. He again expressed confidence that they could turn the tide of the war--but only _if_ he could obtain sufficient troops from General Gates. 

"Troup, you're helping in that wise?" General Glover asked.

"No, sir. I've offered, but Colonel Hamilton will not allow it."

"What's this?"

Troup smiled teasingly at Hamilton. "He wants no appearance of impropriety or tampering. Though my love for him is so great that I would risk it, if he had not banned me from action."

"General Gates is swayed by those who puff him up," General Glover observed. "Philip, I think this young fellow should talk to Arnold."

"I would, gladly, sir," Hamilton said, "but I fear General Gates will take that amiss."

"And if he does? Gates is a fool," General Schuyler.

"I don't venture to defend him but he has won significant favor," Hamilton answered diplomatically, aware that he was significantly downplaying his real antipathy for the man. _Washington would be proud_ , he thought, and then banished that sentiment. What did he care whether Washington were proud of him? "My goal is to get the brigades, sir, not to occasion a break in military chain of command."

"Well, I'm under no restrictions," General Glover said. "I'll put on some subtle pressure. We're all cooling our heels here. While Philip's hospitality is unparalleled, there's still a war to the south and it borders on unconscionable that Gates evades like this. You've seen the state of Patterson's men?"

"I have." Hamilton left no doubt as to his opinion of them.

"What is General Washington's opinion of the defense of Baltimore?" General Schuyler asked.

Hamilton was grateful to turn the conversation to Fort Mifflin and matters that required next to no delicate navigation through politics. 

With so few ladies, their table was rather lop-sided. Hamilton was thrown a few seats down from General Schuyler, between his daughter, Elizabeth, and one of Troup's fellow aides named Cartwright. 

"Troup says you two were at school together?" Cartwright asked over the soup.

"Yes, at King's."

"Oh, were you reading law, too, Colonel Hamilton?" Miss Schuyler asked. 

"Medicine at first, Miss Schuyler, but. Yes, in fact. I'd just switched when the war began."

"Myles Cooper was President at King's during your time, then. How did you stomach taking lessons from such a Tory?" Cartwright asked.

"We did not discuss politics," Hamilton told Cartwright cuttingly.

"Cartwright, Hamilton singlehandedly saved Cooper's life," Robert pointed out, overhearing the exchange from Cartwright's other side.

"Oh, truly?" Miss Schuyler asked. Her eyes, which were so dark they were almost black, took on a glint of excitement. "In one of the battles? Which one?"

"Not in a battle," Robert told her, before Alexander could stop him. "When we got wind that the Headmaster was about to be attacked in his rooms by an angry mob, just for maintaining his post and looking after his students, Hamilton here barred the stairs to Dr. Cooper's rooms. He stopped them cold in their tracks for nearly half an hour."

"It was not more than ten minutes," Alexander corrected. 

"Ten minutes, he says; it was twenty if it was a second. And it would have been longer if Dr. Cooper hadn't tried to interject!" Robert said, laughing.

"Rubbish. Robert, you exaggerate. He was long gone when I stood aside to let them pass."

"But weren't you frightened they'd kill you, too?" Miss Schuyler asked. Her tone was not breathless or fawning--rather, simply curious, unassuming and genuine. 

Alexander smiled gallantly. "Oh, I don't think they'd have killed me, Miss Schuyler. Though there was a danger of being trampled had I not chosen the right time to desist."

"But how did you know when that would be?"

He shrugged. "When they said, 'Stand aside, now, or we'll give you the same as him.' That seemed the right moment." The tale gained a round of laughter.

"He's fooling you, Miss," Troup replied. "The truth is Dr. Cooper had already gone out his window and Hamilton, facing down the stairs, could see our friend Nick Ogden coming in again behind the mob. He signaled Alexander that Dr. Cooper was safely away."

"How very sensible--and brave," Miss Schuyler said, again without a trace of flirtation, all sincerity and sweetness.

"I assure you, I'm not brave--bravery did not enter into it in the slightest. It's merely that--one can't allow the mob to take control. Even if Dr. Cooper did disagree with them, they had no right to tar and feather him--no man should be subjected to such degradations, and certainly not merely for expressing a contrary opinion. I only wish we could have prevented every such instance of anarchy." He became aware that other conversations had stilled around him. "When left to its own, a mob never fails to embrace violence," he said forcefully.

"Very true," General Schuyler said with admiration. "Did you say you were reading law before the fighting broke out?"

"Yes, sir."

"Survive the war, young man. You've a promising career at the bar."

Alexander blushed a bit and returned his attention to his meal. Aware that he'd made himself the center of attention, when he was the only guest his host had not invited personally, he tried to keep a lower profile the rest of the evening.

It wasn't quite to be. A little later, the subject of importations came up--specifically, the possiblity of a blockade, and the effect of British naval interference on shipments of sugar and other commodities from the West Indies. This time it was not Cartwright, but Lockwood, who held forth with all manner of misinformation and outlandish conjecture. Alexander held his tongue, quietly fuming more and more at the ignorance of the man's remarks, until he could not keep silent anymore. 

"You do realize the war impacts the West Indies as much as the mainland," he said as if it were elementary, interposing himself into the conversation.

"How?" Lockwood scoffed. "It's our land that is being ravaged. Our host's home was burned and our hostess had to put their crops to the torch to avoid allowing it to fall into British hands. How many fields have they burned on St. Kitts? None, and do you know why: The majority of the islands remain loyal to Great Britain. It's nearly impossible even to contract with a shipping company from Grenada straight through to Jamaica. They won't do business with us."

"It's true that many on the islands remain neutral, if not loyalist. But understand that they can't be supplied by the mainland, either, as long as British ships line the trade routes between the islands and Boston. And it's our supplies they need more than we need theirs. They're running just as short of lumber, beef, pork, even such essentials as grain, as we are short of rum and sugar--and I daresay we can do without those luxuries much more easily."

"If they declared loyalty to the Revolution--"

"Why? The taxes and treatment we're rebelling against were levied, in part, to improve their colonial enterprises. Besides, we _don't have a Navy_ to defend them."

"Poppycock. All trading ships carry guns--"

"Not all. And those that do often have not the first idea how to deploy them against a trained squadron such as the crew of a naval battleship. The guns that trade ships carry are proof against privateers and smugglers, not protection from military might. And furthermore," he continued, when Lockwood was about to object again, "these days, arming one's ship is taken by the Royal Navy as proof that a trade ship is in league with the continent."

"As I said, a brilliant career in the law awaits you," General Schuyler broke in, cooling the air between his two guests. 

"Your pardon, sir," Alexander said quickly. "I meant no insult to you or your guests."

Schuyler shot a look at Lockwood, who also studied his plate guiltily. Then he said carefully, "There's no offense, I'm sure. I don't mind a lively discussion at my table. But young man, let _me_ beg _your_ pardon. You speak as if you know first-hand what conditions are for West Indians." 

"Yes," Alexander admitted without shame. He flicked his eyes to Lockwood as well, boring into the other man as he continued, "I do."

"Aha! I thought your accent sounded peculiar. Which island was your home, Colonel?"

Like his daughter, the General bore no hint of condescension or affectation. His question was borne of curiosity and, oddly, politeness, rather than the desire to make an exotic out of his found guest.

"I was born on Nevis," Alexander said, "and lived there and on St. Croix until I came to New York for my schooling." It was an abbreviated resumé but one that made his point, without divulging embarrassing details.

"Colonel Hamilton, is your family in shipping?" Mrs. Cahill asked, also as if she wished to give him even more credence in his statements. Unfortunately, while he could have used his knowledge of shipping to dig further at Lockwood, he couldn't do so without revealing more than he really wished.

Troup saved him. "Hamilton apprenticed to the trade, Madam, before deciding to read law." 

Again, it was more half-truth than full, but it did the job. Lockwood mumbled something about the privations of civilians paling next to those in the army. "Naturally, one would be ashamed to rely too heavily on the 'luxuries,' as Colonel Hamilton puts it, while many who serve us with their lives are without the basic necessities."

This led seamlessly to toasts to the servicemen, and discussions of the provisions needed before the armies went to winter quarters. For the time being, Alexander had dodged further interrogation. He barely spoke for the rest of the meal, however. He was too lost in his thoughts and too angry at himself for creating an awkward situation with his host, for bumbling into a revelation of his heritage, and for the likelihood that everyone now suspected, guessed, or knew, that his circumstances were less than auspicious. 

Before he and Troup left that night, General Schuyler asked if he would call again in the morning to carry letters back with him for the General.

"Yes, of course, sir."

"Good. I've a few proposals for His Excellency that I think he will find useful." He hesitated a moment, as if about to ask a searching question, but he evidently decided against it. Instead, he touched Alexander paternally on the shoulder. "Don't worry about Lockwood; he's always been too impressed with himself."

"Even so, I ought not to have argued with your guest, sir. I do apologize."

"His wife is a great friend of _my_ wife's." At Hamilton's blank expression, he continued, "Are you married, by chance?"

"No, sir."

"Hm, well, one day when you've a wife of your own, you'll understand. Rebecca and Kitty are the best of friends, so, one must tolerate her husband. But, he can make it difficult. He never does learn to ascertain the facts before he speaks."

"Oh, I'm not sorry to have corrected him," Hamilton told him with a confident shrug, bringing forth a smile from his host. "I'm only sorry to have been rude, sir."

Schuyler shook his head and waved a dismissive hand. "Not rude, my boy; honest. Give me that over obsequious fawning or bombastic misinformation any day." He held out his hand. When Alexander extended his own hand, Schuyler closed his other hand over it warmly. "Come again in the morning, Colonel. Or--anytime you like. I hope we meet again."

"Well!" said Robert as they mounted their horses to ride back to his tavern. "You've made a conquest there, Ham."

"General Schuyler?" Hamilton asked.

"Him, too."

Hamilton's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, tell me you did not note how taken Miss Schuyler was."

Hamilton scoffed. "I assure you, she was not 'taken' by anything."

"Are you blind or just fooling yourself? She was watching you from the moment you walked in--"

"Because I'm a stranger--"

"And after that story about Dr. Cooper she hung on your every word the rest of the night."

"Because I'm a novelty. It wasn't the story about Dr. Cooper, it was that James Lockwood's ridiculous claims about the West Indies. She probably thinks me half savage."

"She paid attention to you before that. Didn't you notice?" Troup glanced at him sidelong. "That's not like you, Ham. You must be preoccupied by this business with Gates."

Alexander paused. Troup was right; it _was_ unusual for him to not notice when an engaging young lady looked his way. And he _was_ distracted by Gates, but that was not the reason he had no thought about Miss Elizabeth Schuyler beyond the vague sense that she was pleasant and polite. He would not have called her particularly pretty, though she certainly had a handsome face. And those dark eyes--if he had formed one impression of the General's daughter, it was that a man could drown in those black pools. Nonetheless, he had looked at her and his first thought was staying true to John. Only now did he realize how ridiculous the idea was.

In his practical, ambitious mind, he knew full well that he would have to maintain the appearance of his playboy tendencies, for his own protection as well as John's. He was well-known to the lads for something of a flirt, always making love to one eligible girl or another, and with winter about to set in, it was likely he would be in the company of charming young women quite often. So would John. They would both have to, as John put it, 'feign the proper amount of interest' in the women around them. In Alexander's case, it was likely extremely foolish not to entertain the option of an eligible marriage, particularly if a girl had enough money in her own family to compensate for Alexander's lack of means. 

But something in him knew that to marry would only speed the day he and John had to end, and he did not wish that day to come any sooner than necessary. Then, too, Miss Schuyler was so open, so sweet and ingenuous, that he had lacked the heart to flirt with her and play the rake. Other girls might be able to return the repartee and push to the edge of acceptable conduct in the service of playing the game of love, but he knew, instinctively, that Miss Schuyler had never learned, and had no wish to learn, that kind of predation. She was unspoiled, she did not simper, and she had no need to entrap a man with wiles or artifice. 

"Alex?" Troup prompted. They had ridden nearly half a mile since his question.

"Well, obviously, I'm distracted, if I can't even answer your question."

"Was she not to your liking? Or have you been considering her anew?"

"She's perfectly amiable," Alexander said, "and about as far from me as the moon, Robbie. Don't fret, though; I'm sure she'll have admirers enough once the fighting season has ended."

"You could write to her," Troup pointed out. 

Alexander grunted noncommittally. "Why are you so interested?" he asked, suddenly suspicious.

Robbie puffed out his cheeks. "I worry about you, man. You need looking after."

"No, I don't," Alexander said, without rancor but still managing to sound more like his seven-year-old self, insisting to James that he was innocent of any particular accusation his brother might have leveled. "I've always taken care of myself just fine."

"Uh-huh. That's your problem, right there. Delusional. Anyway, let's say you're right, for the moment. It's all well and good to be self-sufficient, but I don't want to see you end up alone."

Alexander sighed and let his stung pride calm itself. "Thank you, Robert. I don't want to see that, either. But I have no immediate plan to seek a wife. The war's more important than that. And anyway, there's always the possibility that by the time it's over, I'll be in a much improved position, a more attractive prospect for exalted ladies of quality."

"You and your ambition, Alex. All right! All right. Far be it from me to tell another man how to manage his affairs."

"That's exactly what you're doing," Alexander grumbled, with the slightest hint of challenge. "Tell the truth, Robbie, do you think I'm overreaching?"

"No, of course not," Troup assured him. "If anything, I think you sell yourself short. I say this as a friend, Ham. I truly believe you could climb as high as any man in this world, particularly in whatever new order we might begin if our enterprise carries. But if you keep waiting for happiness to be contingent on your legacy, Alex, you risk spending your life in pursuit of those acquisitions which only matter to a man if he has someone else to pass them on to--and someone to share his road. I would not have you reach that road's end and realize that in attaining wealth, power or influence, you left out the most significant measure of a man: his family."

Alexander said nothing. Their horses plodded along on the road. A pale, cold sliver of moon barely emitted a glow against the heavy clouds overhead. He looked up and could only make out a few patches of sky where stars valiantly tried to shine. As he gazed heavenward, a few stray snowflakes began to form and fall. 

"I would rather not have a family if I can't provide for it, Robert," he commented softly, after several minutes' silence.

"I know. I know you would do everything to avoid making that mistake. But you need to trust yourself, Alex. You are incapable of indolence. And you heard General Schuyler--he spent two hours with you and knew that you'll be a brilliant lawyer once you can get back to it. You will never want for work."

"Robbie, I appreciate your faith in me, I do. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm hardly ready to contemplate marriage. And if there's one thing I did note well, it's that Miss Schuyler is not the sort who would consider a dalliance."

Alexander's statement about Elizabeth Schuyler and his own plans for marriage was effective enough to shut down any further discussion Robert might have offered. Soon enough he changed the topic back to their exploits thus far in the war, which was more than enough to get them back to Troup's tavern. 

After a nightcap in the common room, Robert headed upstairs. Alexander stayed a while longer by the fire, forcing his eyes to focus on another few pages of his Postlethwayt. When he'd read the same paragraph twice and found his eyes swimming, he gave up and followed Robert's example. As he settled in to sleep, he conjured John's face to console him. He shuddered and redoubled his efforts after he realized that John's image in his mind now bore Elizabeth Schuyler's black eyes.

~

"Colonel Harrison, has Colonel Morgan departed yet?" General Washington asked, entering the house. Laurens came two steps behind him.

"Yes, Your Excellency; he left about half an hour after you and Colonel Laurens went out." Harrison answered. "He offered to escort the ladies as far as York and the Congress. Surely someone there can be spared to see them the rest of the way wherever they decide to go."

"Ah. That solves another problem, then," Washington surmised.

"Yes, sir, handily. We were just about to break for dinner, sir. Unless you've something urgent?"

"Excellent! I'm famished. Laurens, you may ride to the southern camps after we've dined."

"Very good, sir."

"Anything more from Hamilton?" the General asked the company.

"Not yet, sir," Gibbs said apologetically. Laurens felt his spirits flag at the lack of news. Granted, it had only been a day since Colonel Morgan arrived with Ham's letter. So it wasn't unreasonable that he hadn't had the chance to send anything new. Still, he ought to have known that Laurens would be grateful for any scrap of information. 

He was sullen and subdued through dinner, until nearly the end of the meal. Then Harrison said, "Oh, Laurens! I forgot. There's a boy here for you. Been waiting since before noon."

"A boy, for me? From where?" said Laurens. Curiosity altered his mood and made him forget his own trouble for the moment.. 

"Oh, he's your father's, I think," Harrison supplied. "I told him to wait for you. I sent Shrewsbury to make use of him while you were gone."

"Ah," Laurens said with some better confidence. "Your Excellency, with your permission, I'll go and find out his message before riding again?"

"Yes, of course," Washington consented.

Shrewsbury must have guessed his plan, for somehow, when they rose from the table, he was waiting outside the door. Beside him stood James, one of Laurens' father's personal slaves. James was nearly forty, stoop-shouldered and bow-legged from years of riding. His tightly curled hair was turning white, but he remained as sharp and hearty as Laurens had ever seen him. He clutched his hat nervously.

"Mas' John, sir," he said in his heavy accent, "Mas' Laurens sent me to you on account of he been 'lected."

"Elected?"

James beamed. "Yes, sir, Pres'dent of Congress. Tol' me to carry these heah letters, and wait if you's wantin' me to carry sompin' back."

Laurens held out his hand and James placed several folded papers gingerly onto his palm. "Yes, I will. But you'll have to wait longer; I'm about to go out again." He flipped through the small pile, pausing on one a little longer than the others. With determination, he put them in his pocket and looked to Shrewsbury. "Have you had your meal today?"

"Yes, sir, we both has."

"Good. I'll be back in an hour or so. James, you can start back as soon as I've written to Father."

"Already gone dark, Mas' John," he said cautiously.

"Yes, that happens when the day ends. It can't be helped. Both of you can report to General Washington's William to find out if there's anything else you can do while I'm gone."

They muttered acquiescence which Laurens barely acknowledged. He was too focused on getting his second errand run so that he could send James on his way quickly. He trusted Berry, but he knew all too well the tendency for servants to gossip when they had not seen one another for a while--and the last thing he needed was Berry to make an unscrupulous comment to his fellow slave. Anything he said to James would doubtless be repeated to John's father before James had been back at Congress a whole day.

He returned nearly two hours later. McHenry was copying a few final lines, but nearly everyone else had gone to bed. "Oh, and--His Excellency heard about your father's appointment," McHenry told him, on his way up himself. "He wondered if you could tell your man to wait until tomorrow to start back. He'll have something to send along."

"I had thought to send James overnight, but if His Excellency wishes, of course," Laurens said carefully. He set to work on his own letter to his father. He had just recounted the ladies' tales of their travails in reaching the camp, and their misadventures with officers who tried to send them back to Philadelphia, when he became aware of James at his elbow.

"Yes?" he said, frowning.

James regarded him with wide, innocent eyes. "Ready to go, sir, soon's you's finished."

"Oh. Well, you can take your horse back to the stables. You're to remain until General Washington has written to President Laurens and Congress. Sometime tomorrow, I expect."

"Tomorrow, sir?"

"Yes, tomorrow." Laurens turned impatiently. "I thought you wanted to wait until morning," he pointed out.

"Oh, yes, sir, yes, I--I mean, that is, no, sir, whenever you want me to go, sir. I'll jus'...unsaddle the hoss."

"Do that."

James hesitated.

"Well, what else?" Laurens demanded, growing irritated now.

"Mas' Laurens tol' me to ask you, was you gon' write to Mrs. Laurens again--he say if you does, he can send it by Mr. Adams, sir, since he'll be leaving for France soon."

"You mean he told you to _tell_ me to write to Mrs. Laurens," Laurens said testily. "Very well, I'll--think about it."

"Yes, sir," said James, seemingly happy to drop the matter.

"Though I've precious little new to tell her, and it's none of his business anyway," Laurens muttered, more to himself than James. "You need not repeat that to anyone," he ordered, when he saw James still had not withdrawn. "All right. Is that all, or has my father any more thoughts on whom I should write? Never mind, just go," Laurens dismissed him.

James bowed his way out of the room and Laurens pinched the bridge of his nose. It wasn't James's fault. He felt cross with himself for letting his father's roundabout criticism get under his skin--and especially for showing it in front of James, who would likely report as much. He reread what he'd written so far, to add to it another few lines of explanation for his father. Then, before closing, he made sure to read the letters his father had sent alongside his own. If he felt like writing to Martha, that was one thing, but if he was not going to answer her right away, he should at least be able to thank his father properly for forwarding her letter. 

Reading her message, however, put him out of the frame of mind to complete his own correspondence. She was working on ways to come to America, even though he'd told her to wait. The clock chimed midnight, chiding him in its own way. Wearily, he headed upstairs. Halfway down the hall to his own bed, he changed his mind and climbed another floor, until he stood in front of the door to Lafayette's room. He wished Alexander were there, but in a way, he was grateful that the other was not. If he had been, John might have talked to him about his frustrations and the truth about Martha and Frances would come out all wrong. Regardless, he felt the need to bury himself in someone's arms.

Lafayette answered the door in his banyan and nightshirt. "John?" he said sleepily. "I sought you were already asleep."

"No." He stood in the doorway, barely restraining himself. "May I…?"

" _Oui, bien sûr_ , come in," Lafayette told him, and stood aside to allow entry. He shut the door. "I'm glad you come to me, John," he said.

"Please, let's not talk," Laurens requested. He pushed forward into Lafayette and crushed his lips with a kiss. 

Gilbert opened his mouth to let their tongues intermingle. He untied John's cravat with one hand, while the other slipped between John's legs to grip gently at the bulge in his breeches. Breathing heavily, John opened Gilbert's robe. He lifted the other's nightshirt past his knees, until he could pass his hands around to the mounds of Gilbert's arse. Squeezing and massaging the globes elicited moans of pleasure from the younger man. Gilbert nipped at John's lips. He reached for the buttons on John's flap, but John batted his hands away and returned to reaching under Gilbert's shirt. He trailed kisses down Gilbert's front as he sank to his knees. He folded up the hem of Gilbert's shirt and pulled it tight against his torso to keep it out of the way. Then he fed Gilbert's shaft into his mouth and sucked down. Gilbert pushed his hands through John's hair, stroking lovingly as John ran his tongue across his slit and around his foreskin. John switched his grip of Gilbert's shirt to his left hand, the excess fabric bunched up in his fist behind Gilbert's back, while the right stroked up the inside of Gilbert's thigh. He probed his finger into the puckered hole in Gilbert's rear.

" _Cher_ ," Gilbert breathed. John sucked harder, until he felt Gilbert's hands tighten on his curls. He released Gilbert's cock and grabbed him about the waist, then, using his shoulder, picked up the slighter man and stood. John carried Gilbert forward to the bed and lowered him onto it. Gilbert reached his hand out to pull him onto the mattress between his legs and John complied eagerly. He worked his finger deeper into Gilbert, probing as he bent over Gilbert's prick again. He drank down every drop Gilbert had to offer.

When he finished, Gilbert reached for him again. " _Allons_ , let me return ze favor?" He gestured to John's breeches and boots. He was still fully clothed.

John shook his head. He thought of James and Berry downstairs, and whether either would notice that he had not gone to his own room. Too late, he realized he had taken a selfish risk. That thought alone drove away carnal desires. "I should go," he muttered, and closed the door on his way out.

He wished Alexander were there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Laurens realizes just how observant Lafayette is, and Alexander pushes himself to his limits....
> 
> French Translations:  
>  _Allons_ \- Come (C'mon)
> 
> Wow, okay, so... long time getting this chapter up! Um. I know a fraction of how it feels to be in a hurricane, now. I don't recommend it. (Long story short: The campground where I was camping (in period-style canvas tents, no less) was hit more or less head-on by the horrible microbursts on the Gulf Coast on March 17. We were making dinner and we paused to hold the pavilion poles and ropes and stakes in place... with mixed results. We were VERY lucky and no one was seriously injured, and only minor water/mud damages to stuff. I'm still doing the mountains of laundry.) So this is literally the first night I've had to work on getting this chapter out.
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry (not sorry) about the teaser of Lafayette and Laurens... there will be a little more, I promise, of just the two of them. Just--lots and lots to cover! I don't want this to climb to even more long, self-indulgent chapters.... (And if you have not already guessed it, JOHN IS A ~~PUTZ~~ POOR ANGST PUPPY IN NEED OF HUGS. And an occasional swift kick.)


	17. Lesson Number 17: A Setback

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More period-typical racism / racist language (including a historically-relevant variant of the N-word).
> 
> Also: Welcome to the land of flashbacks.

Several days after James's visit, Laurens and Lafayette went for a walk to scout along the bank, for there had been too many conflicting reports about the ships trying to bombard Fort Mifflin. 

On the way, he told Lafayette that he wished they might hear from Hamilton again.

"Yes, I would, too...if only because per'aps you would come and see me if you know 'e's well."

He felt ashamed instantly. Of course, he should have known he could still seek solace in Lafayette's arms. He hadn't done so since that night, however, because it felt unfair to console his worries over one man by burying face, hands, or cock into a different man's crotch. "I'm sorry. I've been worried, it's true, but--I haven't been good company these last nights."

"I could cheer you up, if you came to me," the Frenchman offered.

"That--wouldn't have helped, I don't think." He tried to think of some way to atone for his rudeness. With a self-deprecating smile, he offered, "You must admit, things did not go well the last time."

"Only because you ran away so quickly, one would think you were afraid of me. _Comme un petit lapin, non?_ " They both chuckled. Then Lafayette let a brief silence put space between the laughter and his next statement. "Laurens. I'm not at all cross, but, I mus' ask you somesing."

"Yes?" Laurens swallowed to wet a throat suddenly gone dry. Was Gilbert about to accuse him of upsetting their balance because he so favored Hamilton over Gilbert? Did he suspect that Laurens, for all his love for Lafayette, still felt strange being with him without Hamilton present?

"Does 'Amilton know...zat you are married?"

It took Laurens a moment to find his voice. "How did you...?" Laurens gasped when he could make a sound again.

"Ze day the servant _de ton père_ was 'ere. I was coming to invite you to my room when I over'ear 'im ask of Madame Laurens. I know your mozzer 'as passed, and your fazzer 'as not remarried. _Donc.…_ " He shrugged his expressive French shrug. "I'm sorry, John. I didn' mean to…."

"Eavesdrop."

"Eaves...drop," Lafayette said with a duck-billed frown. "Ingenius, zis word. _Does_ 'Amilton know?" he pressed.

Laurens hesitated. "Not from me," he admitted. "Don't tell him? I mean, let me. In my own time."

Lafayette cocked his head, his face registering disapproval and the surety that Laurens' course would end badly.

"I promise I will tell him," Laurens insisted. "I just--it has to be in the right way."

"I 'ope you know what you're doing," Lafayette warned. "I don' like zis, Laurens."

"He'll take it hard, I know," Laurens agreed. "I always meant to--to soften him up about it. You know as well as I that he ought to marry, too, eventually--and he has the promise of loving a wife as much as you love Adrienne."

"And you?"

"That's--not an option for me," he said. "But it's also too late to change it."

The expression on Lafayette's face communicated an immense heartbreak on Laurens' behalf. "I wondered, when you left so soon zat night, if you might 'ave been troubled by news from 'ome. She is unwell? Or is somesing else ze matter? 'Ave you made 'er un'appy?"

"No, she's quite well, I think. And I don't think she's unhappy, at least, I hope not, except that she's far away and overanxious to reunite. I'm fond of her, really, but--" he sighed. "It's complicated. Our problems are none of her doing. They're my fault." _And they're directly related to our activities_ , he thought.

"Ah, Laurens," said Lafayette, inferring a multitude of understanding. "I wish you could know 'ow it feels. To love a woman, to 'ave a child wis' 'er--"

They heard a thunderous battery of cannons. "What's that?" Laurens asked quickly. They walked in the direction of the firing. Smoke rose upriver as they came to a bend on the shoreline.

"It's got to be Fort Mifflin," he said to Lafayette. "They're finally attacking."

"Laurens, you are ze 'appiest man on earth when zere is ze prospect of a fight."

" _Et cur non?_ " Laurens joked, enjoying Lafayette's good humor at having his own motto used against him. "Fighting is what makes life worth living."

"I cannot disagree." 

"In all seriousness, we have to see what else we can see, and then get back and report this."

As they rushed toward the gunfire, Laurens insisted to himself that he was not relieved that overhearing the battle had cut short their conversation.

~

The morning after the Schuyler dinner party, amid a dusting of fresh snow, Hamilton rode briskly through a cutting wind back to Schuyler's mansion. To his surprise, Generals Arnold and Lincoln had also prepared letters for General Washington. Though he would have loved to stay and take a closer look at General Schuyler's library, he made quick excuses and reversed his tracks to return to the camp. The sun found its way through the clouds, at least, and what snow was on the ground had disappeared before he arrived. 

He met Gates again, this time with additional leverage based on his knowledge that the men were underemployed in their current position. He fought to keep his face neutral as, almost as if he had planned it, General Glover happened upon Gates's office while they were talking. Glover loudly and enthusiastically proclaimed it both a sound plan and a solemn duty to obey Washington's directives. He further pronounced his men ready to march that very day. 

"The fastest way to travel will be by barge down the Hudson," said Hamilton, who had allowed Troup to gather that much intelligence while he ran his errand to Schuyler mansion. "If you'll permit me, we can hire any vessels that are available."

Feeling the pressure from his own generals, as well as Hamilton, Gates finally relented. Hamilton spent the rest of the day working alongside Wilkinson and Troup to get the brigades underway. They lost no time hiring boats, though it turned out only Patterson's brigade could be accommodated. When it became clear Glover would have to march, he ordered his men to move immediately. 

"We'll cross by the ferry; the eastern roads down the river are much more passable," Glover told Hamilton. "We can cover at least three miles today if we leave without delay." Gates gave a reserved sort of permission. By means of a curt nod, he indicated to Wilkinson that he should write the order. 

General Glover nodded at Hamilton, taking care not to appear too familiar with him. They were lucky that none of the aides who had dined with General Schuyler saw fit to tell Gates they had met--but then, Robert had assured Alexander that the aides who had been invited had no reason to tell Gates anything about the dinner or their association with General Schuyler. Not for the first time, Alexander was stunned by the differences in the ways intrigue was pursued in the northern theatre, compared to the way it progressed in the south. But somehow or other, the brigades were both dispatched while the sun was still up. 

By the time he was ready to take horse, there was barely an hour of daylight remaining.

"Stay tonight, then, and get a start in the morning," Troup pleaded.

"No. I wish I could, but I can get to Castleton if I leave now," he said with true regret. "God knows when we'll see each other again, Robbie. Bless you, man."

"You as well, Alex. Adieu." They embraced warmly and Hamilton rode away.

The snow, which he had hoped had been chased away earlier, returned just after dark. He rode through it for a solid five miles before he reached lodging for the night.

He was more than thankful for Lafayette's greatcoat.

He picked up his pace to get back to New Windsor in two days, riding into a furious, cold wind all the way. On the morning of the second day, he woke with a headache and a tickle at the back of his throat, the musty feeling of an impending cold. Worse, his nose developed a drip that required the constant daub of his handkerchief. Nonetheless he pressed on, changing horses often and taking as much coffee as he could to stay warm and awake.

He reached Putnam's camp late that night. Though all he wanted to do was lie down, he forced himself to check in. 

The strong coffee he had been drinking had done nothing to relieve either the ache in his head or the congestion in his nose. Discovering that General Putnam had been equally ineffective in mobilizing the troops he had promised, however, pushed aside his discomfort as surely as if he had lain in bed for three days with a compress. His anger and indignation fueled him better than fortifying broth. 

He dashed off a furious note to General Putnam and immediately set about his own investigation as to how and why his instructions had been ignored. It took several hours, many conversations, and an appointment with Governor Clinton, but eventually he had fixed at least one of the problems. Clinton would loan the money to pay Learned's and Poor's brigades--just enough to get them to Goshen--and from there, Colonel Bailey believed he could convince them to continue on. Hamilton would have to catch up with General Poor at the first opportunity and broker the same deal. Just as he was leaving Clinton, General Putnam asked him to report. Only when he received the summons did he consider that, his half-hearted excuses notwithstanding, he might have greatly overstepped with the man. He would have been chagrined about that, except that he'd just spent four hours or so untangling the mess the brigadier had made. If Putnam planned to hand him his ass for insubordination, Hamilton was not sure he could keep his disdain in check.

Luckily for him, it was not to chastise him, but to explain the situation, that Putnam wished to see him. Unluckily, by that time, his cold had overcome the force of his distress. Quite simply: he felt like shit.

"Believe me, I am as disgusted as you doubtless are by the difficulties we face," Putnam said. "Discipline is lower than I have ever known it. Half of the militia have time expiring at the end of the month, as you know, and the other half have not been paid for more than half a year. Two men were killed just the other day over a dispute. If I can't pay them, I fear they will mutiny before they march."

"I had already made several inquiries and learned as much, sir," Hamilton agreed. "I think I may have a solution. But, what of Warner's men, then?" he pressed on, before revealing his proposal. "Why have they not marched?"

"Ah. Well, truthfully…. The opportunity to recapture New York will not long remain in our grasp," said Putnam.

Hamilton blinked. " _What_ opportunity?" he asked warily. Had Washington lost his mind and issued some disastrous order while he'd been in Albany? Or was he growing delirious with fever?

Putnam began to speak, and the more he spoke, the more insane he sounded. According to him, Governor Clinton had begged assistance in protecting the terrain around New York, where British forces were foraging for winter provision. Putnam had, somehow, ballooned this mission into a full-blown assault on the city. 

"General, you in no wise have the men or the resources to undertake this," said Hamilton incredulously. "You've been given no order to do it; and furthermore you are oversetting the future of the entire effort by embarking on such a folly."

General Putnam leaned forward, snarling. "Colonel Hamilton, you will take care. I can tell you are not at your best but that is no excuse; you come close to the line, sir. Besides, Warner's militia are out of time. They cannot assist you."

"No, I suppose not, sir. If that's all, sir, you will please excuse me," he said quickly, ending the interview before he said anything he--and Washington--would regret. As he left the General's presence, he felt a cough rising in his throat. He had to lean against the wall as the coughing fit racked his frame. He swiped at his nose and swallowed down a little bile--though he could have attributed that to how sick General Putnam's plans made him feel, and not to the cold he was (unsuccessfully) fighting off.

He pulled himself together enough for another visit to Governor Clinton. Afterward, he thought he might have once more outmaneuvered Putnam--but it would still require finesse to ensure that the solution proved effective. Fearing another confrontation with Putnam, he wrote his instructions, and his proposed solutions, in the strongest terms. Then he poured out the whole saga to General Washington. At the end, he added:

> If Your Excellency agrees with me in opinion it will be well to send instant directions to General Putnam to persue the objects I have mentioned; for I doubt whether he will attend to any thing I shall say, notwithstanding it comes in the shape of a positive order. I fear, unless you interpose the works here will go on so feebly for want of men, that they will not be completed in time; whereas it appears to me of the utmost importance it should be pushed with the utmost vigor. Governor Clinton will do every thing in his power. I wish General Putnam was recalled from the command of this post, and Governor Clinton would accept it. The blunders and caprices of the former are endless.
> 
> Beleive me Sir nobody can be more impressed with the importance of forwarding the reinforcements coming to you with all speed, nor could any body have endeavoured more to promote it than I have done but the _ignorance_ of some and the _design_ of others have been almost insuperable obstacles.

He turned away from the page quickly as another coughing fit stripped his throat. One of the other aides offered him brandy from a flask. He tipped it into his mouth gratefully.

> I am very unwell; but I shall not spare myself to get things immediately in a proper train, and for that purpose intend, unless I receive other orders from you, to continue with the troops in the progress of their march. As soon as I get General Poor’s brigade in march I shall proceed to General Putnam at Peeks Kill.  
> I have the honor to be   With much regard & respect   Yr. Excelly’s Most Obed serv  
> A Hamilton ADC

He hunched in on himself inside Lafayette's coat and stumbled off in search of a courier, without even taking the time to proofread his letter. Then he hauled himself and his horse onto the ferry, and crossed the river to Fish Kill to seek out General Poor. Everything ached, from his head to his calves. The motion of the river made him feel profoundly ill; he succumbed to the queasiness, even though it was a short crossing….

>   
>  _His head was swimming. His legs ached, cramping when he tried to stretch. Every time he moved, he felt like vomiting. Maman laid beside him, one arm around his shoulders despite her own agony. Maman used to say that if there was a fever going round within five miles, Alexander would catch it. His body spasmed, his stomach heaved, and he wailed despite himself._
> 
> _"_ Mon petit _," Maman whispered. "Try to lie still…." Her hand withdrew quickly; the mattress shifted under him and he heard her retching over the side of the bed._
> 
> _A cool hand touched his forehead--not Maman's. Probably Esther's. He tried to open his eyes but another stomach cramp made him twitch. He clutched at his belly and cried._
> 
> _He floated like that for hours and hours, unable to stop himself vomiting, crying, shitting himself, moaning. Sleep came fitfully, if at all. More than once he woke calling for Father, even though he knew Father had left ages ago. Once before, when Alexander had caught malaria, Father had brought back medicine. Why couldn't he come back, now, in time to help Maman?_
> 
> _He heard Esther's voice telling them that the doctor had arrived. So it must have been Esther's hands cooling him. The back of his neck felt hot. He couldn't breathe--it hurt too much. It was bad, if they'd called for a doctor. They couldn't afford doctors. Despite the pain, he thought about how much money they had to get them through the month-end, and realized that he had no idea, anymore, what day it was. The murmur of voices above him became indistinct, as he tried to shrink into Maman's shelter and at the same time yearned for space and cool, fresh air…._  
> 
> 
>   
> 

Air. He needed air. He lifted his face to the sun, trying to breathe deep. Someone offered more brandy, but he refused: his head felt lighter than his stomach. The thought of the brandy hitting either organ made him want to vomit a second time. He fervently hoped he could whip the generals into motion, while he still had the wits for the task….

>   
> _"There_ is _something wrong with us, Jamie," he said solemnly._
> 
> _"What's wrong is you still need medicine. You have to get strong or Cousin Peter won't want to take care of us."_
> 
> _"Think he'll come back_ now _?" He leaned into James's side. His brother put an awkward arm around him and rubbed his arm in what, he was sure, James thought was a reassuring way. It made him think of how Maman, retching and gagging herself, had still tried to soothe him with light rubs along his back and arms. Every time she felt a cramp, her hand had twitched, making the motion jerky and unpredictable instead of comforting. Every time she rolled away to throw up, her hand returned a little weaker than before._
> 
> _It was also a mark of how unsettled James was himself, that he did not accuse Alexander of being a baby in his need for solace. Perhaps it was the sight of Maman in the ground, or the fact that they could not even afford a proper coffin. Perhaps it was because they were completely alone and unobserved--not even Ned had been allowed to attend the rudimentary rite. Or perhaps it was James' feeling of responsibility now that he was, in effect, the head of the family._
> 
> _"Cousin Peter could write to him, I guess," James said, sounding none too certain. "I don't know. We must prepare ourselves that he won't be able to collect us."_
> 
> _"Won't_ want _to," Alexander said darkly._
> 
> _James gripped his arm and twisted to make him face him. They still wore the mourning veils so they could at least walk out of the paupers' burial yard unmolested, but even through the layers of black tulle, he could see that he'd angered James. "_ Never _talk about Father like that, or I'll make you regret it." He shook Alexander. "Hear me? Alexander?"_
> 
> _"Yes, I hear you. You're hurting my arm, Jamie."_
> 
> _James forced his grip to loosen. He dropped his hand, but then, convulsively, set it heavily on Alexander's shoulder. "Anyway," he said wearily. "We don't...we don't need Father; we're practically men ourselves. And...Cousin Peter's going to take care of us, if there's no alternative. He promised. We'll find work. You'll see. We'll be all right."_
> 
> _It was the first time Alexander had ever heard James express their independence in a way that renounced their father. The fact that James, who always defended Father, had given up some measure of confidence in the man, was a revelation to Alexander. He'd always thought he was the only one who doubted. James normally grew cross anytime Alexander dared voice a detraction. Now he realized that James had also been steeling himself against the confirmation that their father didn't want them. No one wanted them. Well. Cousin Peter was "willing to take them on," which was not the same as wanting, but it promised a roof and a bed and food, at least. There was a woman, too, a Negress named Ledja, and her son--so perhaps it wouldn't be terrible, after all. He listened to James pin his hopes on Peter Lytton. It was as if he were convincing himself to transfer his belief in Father into faith in Cousin Peter. He hoped their cousin did not disappoint, for James's sake--almost more than for his own…._  
> 

  


Hamilton woke with a start, banishing images of Peter Lytton's bloody corpse, and retched over the chamberpot. He dragged himself from bed, forced himself to dress, and vacated the inn where he'd stopped the night before. The innkeeper gave him a letter that had come in during the night, from General Poor. While the letter's promise of marching pleased him, it further confirmed Putnam's incompetence. He would have to go back to Clinton--again. It would be a small miracle if the man could forbear Hamilton's constant shifts in direction and plans. Though, he told himself as he struggled to mount his horse, it was really Putnam who kept forcing him to change those plans. He would have had no need for contingencies if Putnam had only done as Hamilton recommended. 

When the ferry to New Windsor docked, a courier was one of the first to disembark. "Colonel Hamilton, sir?" he asked, dismounting. 

"Yes," Hamilton said flatly. 

"I thought I recognized you, sir, only you look--Are you well, Colonel?"

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Oh. Well... They'll be glad to know you're on the way back, sir."

"Who will?" Hamilton muttered.

"Well, the General, and the other officers," the courier said. He paused. "You're not here to meet General Putnam's aide by any chance, are you, sir?" The way he asked it could have been a statement or an invitation to mischief.

He was too out of sorts to be polite. "Corporal, generally one waits to take a ferry from one side of the river to the other."

"Yes, sir, I'm aware. Only, I have letters from General Washington. I thought--if you were going to see General Putnam, today, sir, I might leave his letter with you and...and be on my way to the next station."

"You've a letter for General Putnam, from General Washington?" he asked sharply.

"Yes, sir."

"Give it to me now, man."

The courier reached into his bag. At the last moment, his eyes narrowed. "You'll get it to General Putnam?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Hand it over," Hamilton barely kept himself from snapping his fingers imperiously. 

He read the letter quickly and caught the courier before he could continue his route. "Now you may take it to him," he said, refolding it and handing it back.

"But sir, I meant to take--"

"You meant to pass off this portion of your route; I'm perfectly aware," Hamilton snapped, far too tired and ill to spare even an inch of the man's dignity. "You're lucky I don't report you for dereliction. Now finish your run, Corporal, pick up the dispatches that General Putnam surely has for the northward, and do your duty."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." Chastized, the man went on his way quickly.

The ferry ride was useful only in one way. He could sit and write to Washington while he sailed across the river. By the time the barge docked, he was ready to crawl back into a bed--any bed, really, or even any horizontal surface--and sleep the rest of the day away. He barely made it to Governor Clinton's house to explain the next steps in his seemingly endless errand. Governor Clinton took one look at his erstwhile houseguest and practically ordered him to bed. Assuring him that he would take care of everything Hamilton laid out, Clinton gave him over to the care of his servants, who brought him to a room where he collapsed almost immediately….

 

>   
>  _"Are you_ certain _there's nothing wrong with us?" he asked James with a mixture of bitterness and sarcasm. The will had been read; despite his assurances, their cousin had not thought of them in his final bequests. Not that he had had much to leave behind--that was, in essence, the problem that had prompted his rather extreme solution--but he had promised them security. He had lied._
> 
> _"There's nothing_ wrong _with us, Alex. We're just...unfortunate." James swallowed the last word, as if ashamed to have to admit it._
> 
> _They sat in silence, stunned, alone now that the beneficiaries had left to collect their pittance. Ledja had told them they could stay for a few days, while they figured out their next move--but Alexander knew James had no clue what they ought to do next. Neither did he, really._
> 
> _"Maybe they're right, though," Alexander insisted. "Maybe we're...tainted. Cursed."_
> 
> _James huffed angrily. "We're not cursed and we're not fucking_ tainted _. Don't ever say that again."_
> 
> _Alexander tried not to flinch at the force of James' rebuke. "You swore," he observed softly._
> 
> _"I know. Just….don't even think that way. Cousin Peter was not in his right mind; that's nothing to do with us. I don't think he meant to leave us out. Didn't he promise he'd make provision for us if something happened to him? I think, maybe, his faculties left him before he could make good, that's all. Unfortunate."_
> 
> _"Tragic," Alexander corrected laconically._
> 
> _James rolled his eyes. "You and the drama. We're not Shakespearean princes, Alexander. Things just--happen. Anyway. Something will work out. It has to."_
> 
> _They sat for a few more minutes until they were thrown out of the courthouse, not too gently. Alexander walked beside James, shoulders back, head high, with all the aristocratic bearing Father had demanded of them, but he wished he were still young enough to cry and hold his brother's hand. They were neither of them in a hurry to return to Peter's--now Ledja's--home._
> 
> _James was wrong. He hated to think it, but he was sure it had to be the case. He wasn't wrong that Cousin Peter had taken leave of his senses, but he was wrong about the cause of his insanity. Alexander wasn't deaf, or stupid, and the adjudication had dredged up all the accusations they'd heard against their mother before--only this time in even balder, harsher terms. According to the law, they were "whore-children" and they deserved every horrid thing that befell them._
> 
> _Some of the executor's claims were, Alexander knew, specious. He had pointed out to the judge that their father had, undoubtedly, abdicated his responsibilities because he suspected or knew that they were not really his natural children._ Poppycock _, Alexander thought. No one looking at James who knew Father would doubt their connection. And true, Alexander had never taken after either James Hamilton. Of his mother, he'd exhibited only the auburn hair and delicate bones that were hers. Then there was his resemblance to Ned, which everyone whispered about._
> 
> _But he had no doubts about his parentage, resemblances or no. He'd settled that for himself long ago. He was Father's son, too, for all he didn't look it, or share his indolence. He shared his dreamy imagination, that he knew. And his charm, and--other things. It wasn't bastardy that had tainted him--it was simple economics. Father and Maman could afford one child, but two was too many mouths to feed. Particularly a child who wanted expensive things like books, or schooling, or subscriptions to British gazettes. Even when he curbed his requests for extravagances, he'd still been a burden. He was forever getting ill and needing medicine, for example. James's clothes couldn't easily be made over for Alexander--they were too differently proportioned--so he'd needed all his own clothes--yet another needless expense. That was certainly part of the pressure Father must have felt. Then there were all the unanticipated problems when they moved to St. Croix. He could not bring himself to blame Maman for that--really it had been Lavien's fault for being so vindictive as to ruin her future happiness out of spite. But Alexander and James were the proof that Lavien had a case against Maman, and a woman once tempted to stray might stray again--so the Royal Counsel claimed--and surely a man with James Hamilton's pride and heritage could not stand to see his reputation denigrated on every street in town. Yes, that much, at least, was believable. Alexander remembered the arguments Maman and Father used to have, over everything--over money, over their prospects, over the boys. Over how to raise him and foster his thirst for knowledge. Over how different he was from Jamie. He was certain he'd been the reason Father had left--maybe he'd been the reason Peter had killed himself in his bed._
> 
> _Having taken them on, Peter then became the brunt of the town's gossip, and it clearly affected him, too. He was already somewhat notorious for keeping Ledja as a mistress; even more for acknowledging her child. Then he was saddled with the Hamilton boys--more out of a feeling of obligation than real desire to help. Again, it meant more mouths to feed, more pressure to conform, and Peter simply could not see any other way out. They would never know for sure, of course--he had left no note--but obviously, if he had meant to provide for them, he would have made certain they were specifically mentioned in his will. He ought to have done it right away, long before his mental illness took hold of him. He ought to have known that not to do so would screw them both out of any provision for their well-being. James was giving Peter too much credit, in Alexander's estimation. It had been no mistake or misunderstanding. He had, quite simply, lied about his intentions._
> 
> _Either he had lied because he had hoped the situation would be temporary, and thus require no change, or he had lied because he could not bring himself to tell them that he regretted his promise to adopt them. But that part had been obvious within weeks of arriving in his home. He regretted sheltering them, even when their own father would not--and that, Alexander believed, was probably also his fault. It was God's punishment or some warning that he was too anxious for education, escape, for putting his shameful origins behind him. His search for work and refusal to take on tasks that were beneath his intellect; his attempts to approach one of the school masters about private tutoring, had been a source of friction as well. No one but God (and Ned) knew how desperately Alexander wished to go somewhere far away where no one knew him or his parents and he could win glory and fame, and show the world his worth. But he'd made it obvious by his actions that he thought himself better than what Peter thought he deserved. He ought to have humbly accepted his lot, as Peter had frequently (and testily) told him. Yes. It was his pride that had brought this about. His pride, and the way he dishonored his parents and his benefactor because of it._
> 
> _He knew he should repent, but he could not. Was it truly sinful to want to better oneself? Was it truly sinful to drive oneself to meet one's potential? Or was it meant to be a punishment, to know he was intelligent and quick and capable, and yet never to rise in life because of his ignominious beginning? James was Father's son, in more ways than one, and as long as he could survive, he didn't seem to care how. But Alexander was different. Apart from Ned, he'd never met anyone else like himself, yearning for more than he was given. So he had to be the anomaly. Perhaps James was not defective, but Alexander was more and more certain that there was definitely something wrong with him…._

 

Hamilton groaned in pain. His brain clawed its way up to consciousness from somewhere deep. It took several seconds to even begin to place himself in the present. He was twenty-two, he had left St. Croix almost four years ago, and Peter Lytton had been dead for nearly ten years. He was in…. Where was he? 

"Colonel Hamilton?" A hand touched his arm gently. "Thank the Good Lord, you're awake." 

His legs hurt, and his chest, and he remembered. Putnam, Gates, Washington--he was fighting in a war. Of course. And he had been ill. "How...long have I…?" he croaked, his breath thin and uneven. He tried to open his eyes but the light, dim as it was, hurt too much.

"You've been fevered for two days. Do you remember where you are?"

"Fish Kill?" It took him several seconds to summon the words, form them, and force them out.

"You were at Fish Kill several days ago. Do you recall staying with Governor Clinton?"

"I-- Yes," he said hesitantly. "Yes, I felt feverish. I wrote a letter to...His Excellency…." He tried--and failed--to push himself up to a sit. "General Poor--he was marching. Has he gone already? I wrote to--to the General--that I would join them…." His strength flagged and he had to drop his head back onto the pillow again.

"Colonel, rest easy. You've been very ill and your body is most weakened. My name is Dr. Ustice. Now, listen. You wrote to General Washington from Fish Kill three days ago, and stayed with Governor Clinton, but were overcome by fever. You nevertheless rode here to Peeks Kill, to the home of Dennis Kennedy. Do you recall that?"

"Kennedy," Hamilton repeated, feeling like a dolt. "And I've been here another two days since my last letter to General Washington?" he asked weakly.

"Yes. Now, I must insist that--" 

"Two days. _Merde_. I have to check on the progress of the troops," Hamilton announced. He lurched up, face contorting with pain.

"Colonel, you are in no condition--" the doctor argued. He tried to keep Hamilton from rising but Hamilton forced himself to stand.

"I've lost too much time as it is," Hamilton said, shaking his head.

That was decidedly a mistake. He stumbled backward. His knees caught on the bed he'd been sleeping in, and he sat heavily.

"You are not ready, sir," said Dr. Ustice with an undertone of superiority. He might as well have said, "I told you so." 

Hamilton had no patience for anyone else's "I told you so." He clutched his forehead to press against the headache. Forcing the discomfort aside, he opened his eyes and demanded his clothes. "I cannot waste another minute," he explained, carefully and slowly as if to a child. 

"Colonel, it is my opinion that if you embark from this place, the journey will likely kill you," Dr. Ustice snipped at him.

"Doctor, if I do not see to these details myself, I am confident the whole works will be completely deranged." He struggled to escape the gravitational pull of the mattress. "Then many more men besides myself might well die."

"I cannot advise it," the doctor said angrily.

"And I cannot afford it," Hamilton countered. He forced his way around the physician and called for stationery. Before long, he had produced several letters, dressed, and pushed his way out the door.

He made it two more days and halfway to King's Ferry before the doctor's opinion proved the more reliable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Laurens is a mother hen, and Alexander is forced to 'take a break'....
> 
> French Translations:  
> Comme un petit lapin - Like a little rabbit  
> de ton père - of your father  
> Donc - So (Therefore)  
> Et cur non? - And why not (Y'all should know that!)
> 
> (I recently discovered how to mouse-over these translations, but we're so close to the end that I'm sticking with this method for consistency. When the story's over I might apply the code to all the French, if I feel like that much work.)
> 
> Hamilton's letter to Washington is quoted directly. You can read the whole thing [here](http://founders.archives.gov/documents/Hamilton/01-01-02-0339).
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter, man. I've been looking forward (in a weird way) to some of the stuff in this chapter for a long time. Also, it's a freaky example of how the writing process just goes where it's supposed to go. I originally had the break right here, and then when I was finalizing ch's 16-19, I rearranged some things and smooshed that earlier draft of 17 together with an earlier draft of 18, and it grew to 22 pages--enough for two full chapters, except there was no good "break" between this one and the end of those additional pages. I would have ended up with a 14-page ch and an 8-page one...too uneven. But I continued tweaking and looking at it, and I was able to come up with enough material for the 8-page portion to make it its own chapter. Woot! Which means my estimate of 20 chapters is now exactly right. There will likely be a brief epilogue which will show up as Ch 21, but we'll all know it's really the epilogue. (OMG I can't believe I'm almost DONE, gang! I'm working on the last few pages of the last proper chapter! Yeesh!) But that means that the remaining chapters should come out in relatively quick succession once I have finished the drafting process.


	18. Lesson Number 18: A Relapse

Laurens was worried. They'd heard from Governor Clinton that Hamilton had taken ill, but that he had rallied and left to join Glover's men on the march to Goshen. Then Alexander's own letter had arrived, generating both frustration and concern for not only his person, but the mission he'd undertaken. General Washington hastened to send his own letters, indirectly (and in some cases, directly) reinforcing the measures Hamilton had tried to put in place.

"'E's concerned 'e cannot make ze generals obey, so what chance 'as 'Am?" Lafayette explained to Laurens late one night, not long after Hamilton's third letter arrived. "Wiz ze Fort at Mifflin under assault, 'e cannot spare anyone else to focus on 'is officers' stubbornness."

Since the day Lafayette had confronted Laurens about his marriage, Laurens had felt more comfortable in their relations without Hamilton present. Nearly every other night, they had found a way to spend time together, though usually Laurens had to slip out of Lafayette's room and into his own long before morning.

Tonight, he had come upstairs and, with Lafayette's assurances, allowed himself to relax under his attentions. Boneless from Lafayette's touch, his tongue, and his cock, Laurens had lain still and succumbed. 

"Zat's it, Laurens," Gilbert had said, petting him from shoulder to hip. "You deserve to take a little joy, hein? It gives me pleasure to please you, so tell me, what will make you feel good? Per'aps zis?" He pinched a nipple, then flicked his tongue over the nub.

"Yes," John pleaded. "Here," he gasped, and touched the tip of his cock. 

"Ah!" Gilbert smiled approvingly. He re-positioned himself and bestowed a kiss there as well. "Like zat?" he teased.

"More?"

"Is zat a request or a command?"

"More!"

"Better." He took the head of John's dick into his mouth and sucked once, then licked and released.

"More," John panted. "More."

Gilbert suckled again, and this time also used three fingers to rub the skin between John's balls.

"Oh, don't stop," John whispered. "Don't stop." 

Gilbert did not stop, but he did prompt John to tell him what would satisfy. Haltingly, John demanded that Gilbert squeeze his shaft harder. He panted for Gilbert to spread his legs apart and probe--to his surprise, Gilbert added his tongue to the process. Then John flipped over and drew himself up onto his knees. "Don't go gentle," he warned Gilbert. 

Gilbert placed his hands on John's hips and positioned himself. 

"Are you sure?" he asked doubtfully.

"Yes, I'm sure. Do it." He spread his knees farther apart. 

Gilbert made a vaguely disapproving sound, but shoved in without any further preparation, only to pause immediately when John made a sound of pain. "No, keep going, I'm all right," John told him. Gilbert clucked his tongue, but began to pump his hips forward and rock them back. Soon he was slapping against John's arse with every thrust, and John was bucking backward into him. John bent onto his elbows hung his head, then reared upward with the force of their coupling. He collapsed back onto his hands and impaled himself onto Gilbert forcefully. Gilbert stilled again.

"What?" John asked, vaguely irritated. Gilbert wanted him to be more demanding, more confident; he was being as decisive as could be, and the Frenchman was second-guessing him every step of the way. What did he want?

"You're bleeding, John," Gilbert told him.

"Don't care," said John. 

But Gilbert backed off. " _Non_ ," he said. "I won' 'urt you."

"What if I say it doesn't hurt?" John spat. He pushed his arse out further.

"It will," Gilbert told him. "Let me take over, hein?"

"You say I have to demand what I want. This is what I want, Gilbert."

" _Non_ , zis is different." He pulled out and with his hands and chest, pressed John onto the mattress. Then he kissed along his spine and reached into a nightstand for a handkerchief to blot the blood. "I should not 'ave indulged you. You might bleed tomorrow."

"Fine," John said petulantly. 

"Shhh," Gilbert said with a gentle pet of John's shoulder. "You wouldn't say so if someone noticed ze stains. Lie still."

Gilbert held the cloth to John's sphincter until the blood clotted. He took up the pot of oil, using it to soothe the torn flesh. Rather than return to love-making, Gilbert straddled John's hips. He placed his long fingers, coated with more oil, on John's shoulders, which he massaged languidly. He moved with sure, fluid strokes, kneading the taut muscles in John's back. He worked his way down, punctuating his trail with more tender kisses. He spent a long time between John's shoulders, along the small of his back, over his buttocks, on the backs of his thighs. Then he swung back up and massaged his left arm, then the right. When he reached John's right forearm and hand, he rubbed the muscles especially well, easing cramps from long hours with the quill. 

It was nearly an hour before Gilbert prompted him to turn over, and then he repeated his ministration on John's front: scalp, face, neck, chest, hips, legs, feet. Finally he covered John with his body and kissed his lips.

"Zat's better," Gilbert said. "You needed zat more zan a little death, I sink."

John's only answer was a contented sigh. Gilbert settled next to him. John nestled in, a limp puddle on the pillow of his shoulder. He felt like he was floating, adrift in a calm ocean. 

Without the distraction, however, his fears about Hamilton resurfaced. Now, as they held each other, he voiced his concern that Alexander would remain on the hunt of the brigadiers indefinitely until he had worn them down, and that Washington needed to either order them to follow Hamilton, or order Hamilton to give up.

"The generals aren't the only ones who are stubborn," he insisted, when Lafayette's answer had defended Washington's dilemma. "You know how Hammie is. The longer they resist, the longer he will keep riding back and forth trying to convince them to comply. They're endangering the war effort, and they're showing him and His Excellency the worst sort of disrespect," John went on, returning to the subject of the generals. "Congress can barely do anything to help, either, even with my father taking on the presidency. And Alexander--"

"Alexandre 'as done everysing in 'is power, and more," Lafayette agreed. "Ze General feels even worse for sending Alex on an impossible task. 'E told me 'e fears Alexandre will sink zat ze General blames 'im for being unable to move mountains."

"Doesn't he?" Laurens asked, just this side of accusing that very thing. "I read those letters Alexander sent. He already blames himself."

"'E spares a little blame for General Putnam, non? But you are right, _mon cher_. It's clear Alexandre 'olds 'imself to account. But George--zat is, 'Is Excellency--does not 'old 'Am responsible." He kissed John's forehead. 

"Ham doesn't _know_ that, though, and he's killing himself because he thinks he has to deliver." Laurens pushed himself onto one elbow. "'I am very unwell,' he said. That's Hamiltonian for 'I'm at death's door, but don't worry, I'm on the job.'" Lafayette seemed unimpressed, or unsure what to do about it. So Laurens added, "You don't know what it's like, Gilbert, for the worst fear of all to be disappointing a father."

Lafayette scoffed. "I 'ave done zat, many times. Also, don' let Alexandre 'ear you speak of 'im regarding ze General as a fazzer. 'E does not love 'im as a son would. I do not understand 'is resistance--nor, I sink, does 'Is Excellency. It pains 'im from time to time."

Laurens allowed himself this once to criticize his absent lover. "Yes, he hates to think of the General that way, and if you asked him, I'm sure he'd deny it 'til the cows came home, but that doesn't mean it's not true. You only think filial love is unequivocal because you never knew your own father. It's--different, as one comes into one's own adulthood. One has time to learn that a father is, no matter what else, only a man--human and flawed as we all are. Anyway. I can see it, if you can't, how he looks up to the General. How disappointed he is whenever the General does something Alex disagrees with. And how terrified he is that His Excellency will find any similar fault in Ham's own performance. It's the stress of coming through in a clinch, that's what's driven him to a sickbed. And then he can't be about his usual miracle-working, which puts a greater strain on his nerves, and so he spurs himself harder, which damages his constitution further…. He'll put himself in his grave. I mean it."

Lafayette stroked John's cheek, looking at him thoughtfully. "You are undoing all my 'ard work to relax you. _Alors_ , if you like, I'll speak to 'Is Excellency and advise 'im to reassure Alex zat 'e is not to blame."

Laurens weighed the offer. On one hand, it was more or less exactly what Alexander needed to take the pressure off so he could come back. On the other, he might misread it as a sign that Washington never believed him capable of the task in the first place, or that it had been a fool's errand. "If you do, then Alex can't know it's because he collapsed."

"Of course," Lafayette told him, as if he could not have imagined linking cause and effect in such a way. "Zey are unrelated, as far as 'Is Excellency is concerned. Laurens," Lafayette continued, leaning up on his elbows to kiss John briefly, "I love 'im too, and I know 'is character. I agree 'e can be...pricklish."

"Prickly."

" _Ça_. And 'Is Excellency 'as supreme confidence in 'im, or 'e would not 'ave sent 'im alone. If anysing, 'e believes if 'Amilton could not do it, no one can do it."

"That's fine, as far as it goes," Laurens replied, "but a little bit late for Alexander."

"Shh…." Lafayette sat up and hugged John to him. "I, too, pray 'e'll be 'ome soon."

"Home." Laurens' voice cracked on the word. "Yes. We _are_ his home, Gilbert. I want him home."

"'E's making 'is way as fast as 'e can, John," Lafayette reminded him. He corded his fingers through John's hair. John leaned into the touch. He pushed Lafayette back down onto the pillow and covered Gilbert's mouth with his own. 

"Gilbert? Did you call the General by his name, just then?" he teased between kisses. "Is there...something...you need...to tell us?"

"My 'eart 'as room for a multitude of people," Lafayette replied, moving John's hands along his body. 

"Hopeless romantic," John accused.

" _Bien sur_ ," Lafayette admitted with a shrug. "'E 'as allowed me ze liberty, when we are alone. It--I do not sink it feels quite right. But I do not sink I can call 'im what I desire."

John hovered over his chest. "Do not. Say lover."

Lafayette laughed. " _Non_. Alzough…. but, _non_." His tone suggested that it was primarily Washington's preferences that prevented Lafayette from considering the option, but not solely that impediment. " _Mon père, j'espère que je pourrais l'appeler mon père._ "

John chuckled. Lafayette pressed forward. "'E said 'e loves me as a son, and since zen, I cannot 'elp but regard him as a son might."

"It's not that I haven't thought of him that way," John assured him. "But--I have a father. And I think...I think Hamilton has one, too."

"Truly? 'As 'e said--"

"A few weeks ago, he made a comment--it was just a passing one, but I thought it indicated that his father's alive. Somewhere."

"Zis is depressing," Lafayette pointed out. "'E would not wish us to gossip."

"We're not gossiping!" John insisted. "It's not gossip if we actually _care_ about him."

"I care about 'im, John, but 'ow you say…'e's going to do whatever 'e does. We can't stop 'im."

"You could. The General could."

" _You_ could. 'E would do anysing you tell 'im." He leaned up again, seeking another kiss. "But first, tell me what you will do to me, hein?"

~

The next morning, Washington asked to see Lafayette after breakfast; then he called Laurens to join them. Laurens entered with a brisk salute, looking to Lafayette for some clue, or at least, some assurance. His smile did more to calm him than the General's absent-minded invitation to sit.

"Col. Laurens," he said, "the Marquis tells me you are very concerned about Col. Hamilton."

Laurens could not help glancing at Lafayette again. Far from being ashamed, the traitor quirked his eyebrows in the most infuriatingly adorable way possible. "We did learn that his health was on the mend, sir, but--permission to speak freely?"

"That's why I had you come in, son," Washington said sardonically. 

"Ham won't give up until he thinks he's done the job you sent him to do, sir. Even if it costs his own li--health," he amended. He could not quite bring himself to say that Hamilton would drive himself to death.

"I don't doubt it," agreed the commander. "in one sense, that is of course why I sent him." He looked about to say something else, but instead he sat back and waited. 

"Sir, you know I have been writing to my father since his election but he has been unable to stand in the way of certain promotions--" he broke off, unwilling to name the men he wished had not been given further power or influence over the army.

"Yes," Washington acknowledged, which saved Laurens from having to continue in that vein.

"If I may say it, sir, I think that Generals Putnam and Gates are...are rather confident that Congress will not stand by you if it comes to an open challenge of your authority to lead the army."

"You may say it," said Washington, managing not to look stung.

Laurens struggled with his next statement. If Hamilton had been here, he knew, he would already have a five- or ten-part argument, complete with precedents, examples, and a plan of action. But then, if Hamilton had been there, they wouldn't have to discuss the best way to bring him home.

Washington must have sensed Laurens' discomfort and hesitation, because he took pity on him.

"What do you suggest will convince Col. Hamilton that he has carried out his orders as best as any man might do?" he asked.

"I don't--I don't think that's possible. The only thing one could do is...thank him for his efforts and tell him to head back. And--" he added, with sudden inspiration-- "in such a way that if anyone else needed to see it, for some reason, it would make clear that you support what he has already attempted. Sir."

Washington did not smile, but his eyes took on the barest shadow of mirth. "Then let us do so." He dismissed Laurens--but not, interestingly, Lafayette. Laurens was grateful to step outside to the main workroom. He was seldom called upon to engage in private conference with the General. The experience was even more intimidating than time alone with his father. At least with his father, he knew what to expect, and while his father was critical, he was also sincerely affectionate. 

If what had just happened was a sample of the sort of thing Hamilton endured on a regular basis, then Laurens promised himself never to tease the other again when it came to his mixed feelings about the General. He did, however, promise to tease Lafayette rather mercilessly for actively seeking out such a father figure.

An hour later, Washington had written his promised letter to Hamilton, and Tench was copying it for him, and all that remained was finding a courier to carry it. But that afternoon, a runner arrived with news that Hamilton had reached Goshen only to turn right back for Peeks Kill, where he was taken ill again. 

"Right," Washington said decisively. "Send for Captain Gibbs," he told the nearest aide.

It happened to be Meade. "Right away, sir. May I remind the General that the brigadiers are coming in ten minutes?"

"Yes, I'll see them as planned. Send Gibbs in as soon as he arrives, Colonel."

"Yes, sir." 

Gibbs arrived quickly, was admitted to the General's presence despite the meeting, and came back out not three minutes later.

"I'm off, boys," he announced, "to bring our lost sheep home."

"What?" Laurens asked, rising.

"His Excellency said I'm to track down one Lt. Col. Alexander Hamilton, last seen near Peeks Kill, and to--and I quote, 'Stay with him until I can return him safely to camp.'" He grinned at Laurens. "His Excellency seems to think his collapse is the product of overwork. I guess he's really in the weeds on this mission, isn't he?"

"No, I don't think so," Laurens replied, leaping to Hamilton's defense. "I think he insists on doing the job he's been given to do."

"Even if it kills him, I know. Well, he's about to find out that he's not the only one who can play that game." He dropped his voice. "I'm leaving in about half an hour, so if you want to send him a letter, write it now, John." 

"All right," said Laurens with furrowed brow.

"Don't worry: everyone knows you're his mother hen. I'll be back shortly." With a wink, the goodnatured captain went to pack.

"Look after him, will you?" Laurens said to Gibbs thirty minutes later when they saw him off. "And try to make him stay put 'til he's well."

"Laurens, you know that's about as likely as snow in July, yes?"

"I do. Try anyway, my dear."

"He'd listen to you, John, but I can't order him about, you know that."

"Well, here, I took your advice. Give him this if he makes a fuss," said Laurens, holding out the folded, sealed paper that had been his last half hour's labor. "If you need to, write to me and I shall further tell him to be sensible. Just get him back in one piece."

"Oh, that I can promise. Lord knows the General wants him back as soon as possible, too."

Lafayette appeared, coming out of the Generals' conference.

"'As 'e gone yet? Ah, Caleb, good, I 'aven' missed you." He came forward and shook Gibbs' hand for longer than necessary. As they clasped hands, Lafayette leaned in and whispered very low.

"I understand, sir," said Gibbs, suppressing either a smile or a grimace. He fussed with his uniform for a moment, tugging at his waistcoat.

"Do write if you can, _mon cher_ , and let us know 'ow we may 'elp." Lafayette sent him off with a _baiser_ and stepped into line with Laurens. He dipped his head to look upward into Laurens' eyes. "I 'ave news."

"About what?"

"Let Caleb be on 'is way." Once Gibbs had ridden off, Lafayette drew Laurens aside. "Now zat Fort Mifflin 'as fallen, we 'ave to make a stand before ze winter," he said with loaded significance.

"Yes, I--Oh." The subject of the Generals' conference made itself clear. "You mean you're leaving."

"Wiz Greene," Lafayette nodded. "A day, per'aps two, no more."

"Right. All right," Laurens said. "Where?"

"We've been reading maps all morning," said Lafayette. "I sink 'e's close to a decision but...somewhere around Red Bank, I am sinking."

"Fort Mercer," Laurens guessed. 

"Mos' likely." Lafayette paused. "I am sorry to leave before 'Amilton is able to return."

"It can't be helped. It's all right. I'm not so fragile that I can't be without either of you, you know."

"No, of course," Lafayette chuckled. "Zat was not my meaning. In any case, we 'ope to be back before _mon père_ moves ze army."

"Well, you're not leaving yet," Laurens said stiffly. "There's still a great deal of work to do."

"Yes. I will miss you, Laurens." 

"I--I should really get back to it. I've wasted enough time as it is. Excuse me," Laurens said quickly, suppressing a surge of irrational anger. 

Lafayette caught his arm. "Is zat what zis is? A waste of time?"

"No," Laurens replied, chastened on realizing how his words had stung the other. "That was not _my_ meaning, either, my dear. I'm sorry." He sighed. "I will miss you, too, a great deal."

"Laurens. 'Am will be all right."

"He might _not_ be, though. And--there's a better than even chance _you_ won't be, either. I pray otherwise of course--but we'd be mad not to admit it." He let out a self-deprecating laugh. "Now I think I understand how Hammie feels every time he thinks about the command he might have had if he were not an aide. This staying behind while others take risks is intolerable."

"I told 'Amilton once, I am going to survive zis war. And so is 'e. And so mus' you, Laurens. You 'ave a wife to sink of, and your fazzer. And your friends, who love you." He took one step forward. "I will never understand why you are so 'ard on yourself, _mon cher_."

Laurens snorted. "I've been raised to be," he observed. "I promise, I will try not to wear myself out with worry over you two."

"Zat is all anyone could ask." He lowered his voice and switched languages. " _But allow us to wear each other out at least once more before I go? It will be a pleasant memory to hold while we are apart._ "

Laurens smiled despite his ill humor. " _I'm sorry, I know I'm unnecessarily morose_ ," he said, also in French. "Perhaps I'll feel better tonight."

Lafayette shrugged. "You are allowed. I understand, of course. It's 'ard not to be jealous zat I 'ave ze opportunity to fight, I know." He winked, seeming to challenge Laurens not to join on the joke.

"Yes, that's exactly it," Laurens agreed, still smiling, but more fixedly. "I should get back to work, really. I'll see you later. I promise."

He walked away, back to the room where the others were working. He was furious with himself for letting the news bother him so much. Of course Lafayette was being sent to fight--that's why they were all there. Not to satisfy carnal desires. But it was more than that. He had told Lafayette that Hamilton was the glue that held them all together. He hadn't realized how true it was. Without him, things were falling apart. Lafayette's attentions were keeping him sane. If Gilbert left, too, work would be all he had.

He wished he could have taken Gibbs' place. He would have ridden through Hell to make sure Alex came home safe.

~

>   
>  _He remembered riding on Papa's shoulders earlier that day. Now it was time for bed--or, it had been time over an hour ago. So far he'd succeeded in delaying for a second bedtime tale. Papa's stories were never short._
> 
> _"And that's how Ian Direach became best friends with Gille Mairten the fox," Papa concluded._
> 
> _"Tell another," Alexander requested, quickly, before Papa even had time to tuck the coverlet under their chins. Three bedtime stories would be a new record._
> 
> _"Och, no, Alex. You've had two already, and a song."_
> 
> _"But--"_
> 
> _"Ye're no' tired, I know,_ balach _, I've heard that before from both of you. Then it's morning and your poor m'am canna get ye to wake. No." He winked over at James, who was also just as wide-eyed, but who generally left to Alexander the job of begging for more stories. "Well," said Papa after a moment. "As ye're no' about to sleep, anyway…there_ is _a wee matter where I might be able to use your help…."_
> 
> _"What?" they both asked eagerly._
> 
> _"Well, it's your m'am's birthday anniversary next month, did you know that?"_
> 
> _They did not, but they were both excited by the idea._
> 
> _"Does that mean you have a birthday, too, Papa?" Alexander asked._
> 
> _"All God's creatures have birthdays,_ balach _," Papa explained. "'Tis only that many adults don't set much store by their anniversaries."_
> 
> _"Why not?"_
> 
> _"Och, the more of them you have, the less important they become."_
> 
> _Alexander looked at James, as if to say that seemed impossible to conceive._
> 
> _"Anyway," Papa continued, "you know your m'am's been...a little sad since your baby sister wasnae born. I've been trying to think what might cheer her up on her birthday. Perhaps you have ideas."_
> 
> _"A puppy," James said immediately. Alexander groaned. James never lost a chance to ask for a pet. A selfish request now might ruin Papa's mood._
> 
> _Papa just laughed. "Somehow I think a wee pup's more like to cheer_ you _up, Jamie-boy, no' your m'am."_
> 
> _"A new frock," Alexander supplied after thinking it over._
> 
> _"O-ho! Now, there's an idea, Alexander. How did ye come by it?"_
> 
> _"Mr. Warner's shop. They had silk cloth in and one of his girls made a little doll's dress out of some of it. They put it in the window. Maman even went inside once and asked about one of the bolts. I think it was a sort of a green colour. But when she spoke to Mr. Warner, she looked sad again and we left."_
> 
> _"Well--_ silk _," Papa agreed, as if the word itself explained its very impossibility. "But maybe a length of calico. That would look fetching, dinna ye think? I'll have to see what I can get in Basseterre when I'm on St. Kitts."_
> 
> _"When do you go, Papa?" James asked._
> 
> _"Mm, next week. Back before you know I've been gone. All right. Now, close those eyes, me bonnie bairns, or the Giant of the Five Heads will come and eat you up!" He punctuated this by tickling Alexander under one arm and tapping James on the forehead. Then he settled them back down, kissed them both goodnight, and lowered the netting over them. He took the lamp with him, its light receding as he disappeared into the hallway._
> 
> _"He can't afford silk," James said quietly._
> 
> _Alexander wondered if James thought he needed to explain to Alexander (he didn't), or if James himself were just figuring it out. There really wasn't anything else to say, though. He couldn't tell James he already knew that; he dared not tell James that it took him long enough to catch up. "My feet are cold," he said._
> 
> _"Then put on stockings."_
> 
> _"Will you get them?" he asked in his most pitiful tone._
> 
> _"No. They're your feet."_
> 
> _"I can't reach the bureau myself."_
> 
> _"Then I guess you'll freeze." He said this without rancor, just a statement of fact as only an elder brother could make._
> 
> _"Jamie…."_
> 
> _"Nope. I'm comfortable."_
> 
> _Alexander groaned a sigh that was equal parts frustration and whine. "Fine." He snatched the covers off James and wrapped himself in them. "How about now?" he asked._
> 
> _James wrestled him for the blankets. In the tussle, Alexander tried to push him. But he was so much smaller than his brother that he actually moved himself backward, rather than forcing James away. The motion propelled him off the edge of the bed. He landed on the floor with a thud._
> 
> _"Boys!" Papa shouted up._
> 
> _"Sorry, Papa!" James called back. He glared at Alexander. "See what you did? Get your socks."_
> 
> _"I told you, I can't."_
> 
> _"Such a baby. Wake up Ajax, then."_
> 
> _"No. I don't like to."_
> 
> _"Why not? That's what he's for."_
> 
> _"No." Alexander stood up, straightened his nightgown, and padded to the bureau. The big handle was just out of reach, and the top drawer was too high. He couldn't use a chair, even if there had been one, because it would be in the way of the door. But. He thought there might be a way if he were clever about it. He pulled out the bottom-most drawer and tipped it over. The clothes spilled on the floor, and he was able to stand on the upturned drawer bottom, making it into a sort of step-stool. From there, he could swing the big door open and reach into the drawer with the stockings. He pulled out two stockings and hopped down._
> 
> _As he climbed back in, James said to him, "Mosquito net. Don't forget to straighten it out."_
> 
> _"I did," Alexander insisted. He smoothed the net down the edge of the mattress where he'd gone over the side. He had not noticed the corner where the net had ripped from his tumble. It was all bunched up by the foot of the bed, and the tear was just big enough to let mosquitoes in._
> 
> _Three days later, he had the fever. Maman and Esther nursed him, and told him Papa would bring medicine back from St. Kitts. He lay in bed for days, racked with cramps in his legs and arms, alternating between blisteringly hot and shiveringly cold._
> 
> _Maman never left his side…._  
> 

Hamilton woke slowly, gradually becoming aware of his surroundings. There was no one, this time, to smooth back his sweaty hair, to soothe him with a cool cloth or to make sure his limbs relaxed. He was in a tavern of some kind, he thought--not Kennedy's house, nor Clinton's. He could not even remember right away whether he had been heading east or west the previous day. At first, he knew only that he was trying with all his might to finish this task and get the army moving back toward Washington--so that he could get back to Laurens.

He dressed by stages, appalled at how much rest he needed between the phases of the process. Shaving nearly drove him back to bed. He thought about ringing for a bath, but decided there was little point--and he did not wish anyone to see him so weakened. The delays at least helped him recall his progress--or lack of it--and what his plan had been when he'd fallen into bed the night before. He could not recall asking for a private room, but in his condition, it was likely the landlord had simply put him in a chamber by himself for fear of anyone else catching his illness. As he gathered his belongings, dreading the idea of another day on horseback, he considered whether he should ask instead about hiring a coach. No; it would be too expensive, and too slow besides. Somehow, he found the strength to push forward. 

On leaving his room at nearly midday, he could hear voices downstairs in the taproom.

"Captan Gibbs, you said you've come from His Excellency?"

"Yes, he sent me along to help Colonel Hamilton. I inquired at Kennedy's and was told he pressed on; then I learned he had stopped here at Ramapo. How is he?"

"He arrived yesterday to take lunch, sir, but in such a state that he went straight to a room. I feared I should send for a doctor."

"Well, that's why I'm here," Gibbs said pleasantly. "If he can order me to run his errands, perhaps he can be persuaded to remain until he's well."

"Nonsense," Hamilton announced, an angry irritation fueling him for the moment. He met them at the top of the steps, dressed, groomed, but unable to keep from holding himself stiffly. "Caleb, thank you, but I'm perfectly well now."

"You look like death warmed over, Colonel," Gibbs noted. "Why not give it another day?"

Hamilton shook his head with determination. "A day will not make a difference to me, and it very well could make a difference to His Excellency."

"Ham--"

"I'm glad you're here to accompany me, Caleb, but let's go. I need to get to Peeks Kill."

"I've a letter from His Excellency with me--he was going to dispatch it with the express but he sent me instead."

"A letter?"

"Yes." Gibbs reached into his pocket and pulled out the folded page. He handed it to Hamilton.

Hamilton read it with lightning speed. Even so, he was wavering on his feet before the end. Gibbs stepped forward in a convulsive lurch, but Hamilton noticed at the last second and caught himself. "I said, I'm all right."

"Yes, so you did." Gibbs disbelief was palpable. "His Excellency sent another message. He told me to tell you to look after your health first and then to worry about the rest."

If Gibbs thought he would take this news as proof of Washington's affection, he was mistaken. Hamilton glowered and was about to speak again, when Gibbs said, "And I thought Laurens might want to write to you, so I asked and he did."

"You've something from Laurens?" Hamilton asked breathlessly.

Gibbs handed Him a second paper, this one closed with a wax seal. Hamilton opened it eagerly. In Laurens' close, tidy hand, it said:

> My dr A--  
>  Do not bring yourself to harm by rushing to return. There's time enough for a glorious death on the battlefield, if that is what you seek; but no one ever erected statues to men who, when ailing, fell from their horses and broke their necks, or succumbed to fever at the tender age of 20 (or even 22). Your legacy is just beginning; to die now would be a waste greater than I could forgive. I said forever, if necessary, and I meant it. I will wait your return, like Damon for his ransom by Pythias. Believe that you have all my love and prayers, that chiefly I pray you will recover, and then come back to us--in that order. Yours ever,  
>  J.L. 

Hamilton sighed. "Dear John. He means well, but really, all this fuss is--"

"Funnily enough," Gibbs overrode him, as if he expected the additional objection, "the Marquis _also_ pulled me aside, and he said, if the General's message didn't work, to give you this." He dove into another pocket and produced another note.

Hamilton accepted this, too, opened it, and the ghost of a smile transformed his face as he read:

> For the love of God, Hamilton, and for the unending affection of your dear friends, of whom Laurens and I count ourselves paramount, do not overtax yourself. His Excellency could not forgive himself if you do not return whole. _Il n'est pas en colère contre toi._ He knows you have done everything anyone could do and more. _Cesser d'être un âne_ , Alexander, and take your time. All the lads miss you and embrace you and wish you a very speedy recovery. _Adieu, et mon affection_. -Lafayette 

"Ah," said Hamilton, feeling outgunned, outnumbered, and outmanned. "Perhaps...another day of rest would not hurt."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Hamilton rejoins the family....
> 
> French Translations:  
> Alors - So, Well, Anyway, etc.  
> Ça - That  
> Mon père, j'espère que je pourrais l'appeler mon père - My father, I hope that I might call him my father  
> Il n'est pas en colère contre toi - He's not angry with you  
> Cesser d'être un âne - stop being an ass
> 
> Scots Gaelic translation:  
> balach - baby boy, son
> 
> Whew! Thanks for your patience while I got this chapter together. The rest of the fic has been drafted! So I hope to clean up the remaining chapters and get them out over the next week, two at the most. 
> 
> Also welcome to the land of endless flashbacks (again).... that's not stopping soon, btw. Glad y'all said you wanted more!


	19. Lesson Number 19: A Respite

Far from only another day, it was fully two months before Hamilton finally arrived back at Headquarters. 

By that time, it was the middle of winter, and the army had moved to a muddy valley in southern Pennsylvania with frozen ground and only a few smithies to distinguish it. They had built crude huts for many of the troops, but the rest were camping rough in driving winds and blowing snow.

As the carriage pulled up to the camp, Hamilton debated getting out and traversing the rest of the distance on foot. He had finally suffered Caleb to hire the coach, when it became clear he could not travel on horseback for more than a few miles at a time. 

"It's the only way we're going to get you there, Ham. Unless you want to winter with Dennis Kennedy…."

"Coach it is, then," Hamilton had agreed reluctantly. That made it no more agreeable to arrive in it. 

Even by coach, the journey had been maddeningly slow. They had needed frequent stops. Every bump in the road seemed to find sore spots in his back, legs, or head. Comparatively, the swaying motion of a horse's canter might have been preferable. Many times he had considered shooting holes in the compartment for more air or light. It made him think of his sea voyage, how he had tried to spend as much time on deck as possible--only the jolting, jouncing motion of the carriage was far less pleasant than the rolling swells of the ocean. He could barely read without feeling sick from the way the words bounced around in his hands. He wondered if he might actually die, after all, from impatience in his mode of travel, not to mention the infuriating inability to know where one was pointing or how far along one was at any moment.

While quartered at Kennedy's, doctors had twice predicted his death--Gibbs himself had written as much back to headquarters and then been delighted to eat his words. Meanwhile, Hamilton had had to reconcile himself to spending Christmas, then his birthday, without Laurens and Lafayette. It was now the middle of January, it was cold, it was desolate, and he was as weak as a kitten, but he was relieved and elated beyond measure to be back with them.

With the business of moving the army to winter quarters, and one or two final chances to encounter the enemy before the weather turned too cold, neither Laurens nor Lafayette had been able to come see him during his convalescence--beyond that, with Gibbs as his nursemaid, it would have been far too conspicuous if they had done. Laurens had written twice, as had Lafayette, which was, they said, less often than they liked, but as much as they thought proper under the circumstances. They had apologized for leaving him to his own devices and promised a proper welcome when he finally joined them. Lafayette had even implied that they were deferring the holidays to celebrate them again when he was present.

These assurances consoled him through the long days of his recovery, while he heard the news second- or third-hand, and tried, as much as he could from his sickbed, to remain useful to the war. His doctors had insisted on rest and a diet rich in protein, intended to strengthen him. In reality, the fatty foods played merry hell on his kidneys and left him feeling heavy, sluggish and sleepy. However, he was still able to keep a finger on the pulse of the troops. When he could not go out himself, he sent Gibbs to reconnoiter and report back. He had planned to further investigate certain charges that officers in the vicinity were marketeering, but they had little success tracking down the guilty parties. By the time he was ready to travel, the army had moved south. At that point, he and Gibbs decided it would be better to abandon their branch efforts in New York, and join the family again. He had left a letter for Governor Clinton and had to hope the man would follow-up.

At present, his heart had begun to flutter with anticipation at seeing Laurens again, and Lafayette. He pressed the carriage on, trading a more dignified arrival for the one that would see him get there in the remaining daylight. ("Daylight" was a loose term: The countryside, since leaving Trenton, seemed permanently grey, with only a faint wash to distinguish noon from night. Winters like these were perhaps the only times he missed the bright blues and greens and sunshine of the West Indies.) The coach thumped over uneven, rocky road, making him question his decision to remain in it. He craned his head to peer out of the window, though this put a strain on his neck. Eventually he could see a rustic sort of main house among a circle of smaller outbuildings. The carriage bumped to a halt and--yes, the door opened, and out came Laurens to greet him.

If he'd been back at his peak, he would have bounded from the coach to meet Laurens. As it was, he had to climb out somewhat gingerly. At least he could stand, and walk, as tall and straight as ever. Laurens' smile was more brilliant than the weak sunlight, and although their embrace was only as long as proper between two friends who had not seen each other for six weeks, Laurens' hands were warm and firm against Hamilton's back. 

"Thank God you're here," John whispered against his cheek. "I've arranged everything. You'll see."

He was as good as his word: they had to climb to the very top of the stairs, but John had assigned them a little garret room just big enough for the two of them. There was a respectable fire going in the grate. John made him sit on the bed closer to it, while Berry brought in Alexander's bag. As Alexander basked in the heat of the fire, John poured him a little brandy. 

"This is ours?" Alexander verified, noting his own trunk standing at the foot of the unoccupied bed.

"Yes. It's one of the smaller rooms--the others have three or four crammed in--but I convinced everyone else that you'll need the fire, and someone willing to look after you. Caleb's done enough of that for a while."

Berry's steps had faded after he turned at the landing. John knelt on the floor by Alexander. Then he kissed him as if he wanted to devour him.

Alexander moaned briefly. He gripped John's collar to pull him in closer. The fatigue of the journey paled next to John's warmth, his solidity. He felt energized as he hadn't in weeks. Suddenly he wanted to touch every inch of John simultaneously, kiss every freckle, and fuck like they never had to do anything else. 

"I haven't reported to His Excellency yet," he heard himself saying.

"He's on rounds; we've got time," said John. "Besides, we thought you'd likely be so tired you'd need to go straight to bed. You see, I thought of everything."

"You did!" Alexander tucked a stray lock of John's hair around his ear. "My bright, beautiful Jacky."

John's eyes floated closed in pleasure. He caught Alexander's hand and kissed the palm ardently. " _Are_ you too tired?"

"Not at all. Come on," Alexander insisted, pressing back against the headboard and patting the mattress between his legs. John climbed up in under a second. He braced a hand against Alexander's chest as he trapped his lips in his own. 

"I've missed you so much," he said unnecessarily. "Oh! Door." He went to shut it and returned in a slow, stalking lope. Alexander laughed at how John clowned his way up the bed to kneel in front of him. John pulled off one of Alexander's boots, then the other, then snaked his hands up his lover's thighs to his hips.

"I was expecting you to be skin and bone, but you've filled out," he observed, perplexed.

"The regimen that doctor had me on. So many eggs and fowl. If I never see another pheasant it'll be too soon."

"Well, you won't be seeing any here," John promised with a grimace. "I swear, I've no idea how we'll provision everyone through the winter. It's not even the end of January and we've just about hunted the region bare."

"It did seem rather sparse," Alexander observed. 

"An understatement," John confirmed. They lingered on the topic of the extraordinary privation so far meeting the army encamped with them, and the promise of a hard winter. "I pray we're wrong and the weather is mild but I fear that nature has other plans," John concluded.

"Let's worry about that later, can we?" Alexander asked. "If you don't fuck me, John, and I mean right now--"

"All right, I'm working on it, my dear," John laughed. He resumed his slow crawl up Alexander's body. Alexander closed his eyes. John's hands were strong, hot points of contact, burnishing his skin through his clothes. He arched and stretched to draw out every light touch. It felt like years' worth of affection were stored in each stroke. John wandered up and down, side to side, keeping Alexander guessing where he might land next. He teased until Alexander could stand it no longer.

"Dammit, John, please--I need you--"

"Patience.…" John silenced him with a kiss that drew his lower lip outward before releasing it. "Gilbert and I--" he continued, bestowing another kiss on Alexander's forehead-- "have been working--" a nibble on Alexander's earlobe-- "on my leadership and decisiveness." He untied Alexander's neckcloth to suck on the hollow of his throat. "If I'm going to lead a battalion," he tugged on Alexander's shirttail, and Alexander sat up to let it come free, "I need to possess both discipline and nerve."

"A battalion? Your Black scheme!" Alexander's eyes flew open. "Has it moved forward?" 

John blushed a little. "Not--quite. Not yet. Lafayette convinced me to write to my father about it."

"Lafayette's been busy, then," Alexander grumbled. "We heard about his exploits at Red Bank just before the end of November."

"He'll want to tell you all about that!" John agreed. "But really, it was only a little push from him. The truth is that he's been writing to my father ever since his election. There are so many French, as you know, who come and press for a commission. Do you remember the Chevalier Duplessis-Mauduit? Well, he and Fleury and D'Arendt all are seeking employment with the regular Army. So Lafayette has been writing on their behalf, and about his thoughts on how to improve our prospects, primarily by convincing Congress to adopt his strategy to bring France into the war as our ally. Gilbert had met my father already, you remember, when he was wounded. And, well--"

"He charmed him completely, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"Going to read the banns anytime soon? Do you look forward to gaining a foreign step-mother? Or would that be step-Marquis?"

John looked at him quizzically. "Ass," he concluded, smacking him lightly, "I'm safe from that. You know perfectly well he's already married." A shadow flitted over his face, but he covered it quickly with a laugh. "Anyway, he worked that magic that somehow utterly wins over any man over the age of 40--"

"--Or under," Alexander agreed.

"--Fair point. He worked his magic, let us say, and he told me he'd attempted to soften the ground for me with Father, too. So I...I sent him a letter outlining the idea."

"When?"

"About a week ago." He dropped his gaze. "I haven't heard anything back, of course." He shrank in on himself as he contemplated what his father's silence might mean.

"Hey," Alexander said, leaning forward to touch John's shoulder, "what happened to being more assertive? And wasn't there a promise to fuck me a little while ago?"

"I'm not forgetting," John reassured him, and reached for his waist to make the point. "It's just--there's so much to catch up on."

"We have all winter. Talk less. Fuck more."

"Yes, _sir_ ," John mock-saluted, and fell to with a will. He abandoned all attempt at languid lovemaking and instead opted for a faster pace. He unbuttoned Alexander's flies and helped him shimmy his braes down, then plunged his hand under Alexander's shirt-tails to grasp his balls. 

Alexander cut off a cry of relief at the sudden, hard grip. He reached for John's biceps to hold himself upright. Then he returned John's favor with a hand down his breech-front. 

John shifted forward on his knees, pushing Alexander backward. He pulled Alexander down on the bed, lying him on his back. Then he backed up until he could lean down to apply his mouth to Alexander's cock. He sucked, licked, and gummed the stiff rod, massaging his balls gently with his fingertips. When Alexander was close to losing control, John withdrew his mouth and flipped him halfway onto his stomach. With one hand still gripping Alexander's staff, he brought his head down again and lapped at the skin around Alexander's arsehole.

This was a completely new sensation--and Alexander stifled another profane cry at the hot, wet feel of John's tongue swiping along the puckered skin of his hole. He was relieved to have bathed just the day before, for all he could think about for a moment was how unclean he might have been otherwise, how he would taste if that had been the case. But then John's tongue broke the barrier of his flesh and it stole Alexander's breath from him. John blew hot blasts of air into him, then laved the opening with the broad flat of his tongue, then used the tip to tease and tickle his rim. Alexander's breath came back in fast pants. John did not forget his cock, either, and maintained a steady stroke along its length, massaged the throbbing vein on its underside, pressed the pad of his thumb into its slit, rubbed the ridge of his foreskin. John's attention went on and on, so proficient and thorough that Alexander began to wonder how much longer either of them could continue. John seemed determined to bring him off by the oral contact alone.

"John," he croaked, swallowing, "Jack. More. I want you inside me, Jacky. It's wonderful, what you're doing, but--I need more."

"As you will," John muttered. He sat up and inserted his index finger immediately. After a few pumps, he added the second, almost rough in his haste.

"Yes, yes," Alexander encouraged. His eyes bugged and he breathed sharply but the pain was just on the right side of enjoyable. He turned a bit more so that he could lift his arse for a better angle. He could also look through his own legs from the position, so that he could watch John prepare himself.

John had to withdraw long enough to shuck his boots and clothes, and once nude, he immediately wet himself with spit. He positioned himself against Alexander's thighs and hips and pushed forward after only a minimum amount of scissoring, using the force to plunge deep into Alexander. The driving thrust made Alexander rear up like a horse that had been whipped too hard, but as he came upright, he reached backward and caught John around his waist. He lowered his hand to John's butt-cheek and pushed against it to encourage their rhythm. They fucked quickly, in short strokes, heedless of the bed's creaking since it was the middle of the day and they were more than a floor away from anyone who might hear. The fire, the closeness of the room, the vigor of their exertions raised sweat on Alexander's back. His shirt stuck to his skin, but he pulled John closer when he bent back down to brace his elbows on the mattress. He reached for his own erection with one hand, met John's palm at the base of his cock, and with their fingers wrapped together, he squeezed himself hard. At the same time, John thrust mightily--it was enough. They both tumbled over the precipice in the same instant. 

John recovered first, for by the time Alexander could think again, his lover had already rearranged the coverlet and cradled Alexander in his arms.

"Did you say something?" Alexander murmured.

"Not if you'd fallen asleep," John replied.

Alexander sighed contentedly. "What you did just then….did you and Gilbert do that?"

"Yes. He--he did it to me one night and--I quite liked it. Do you mind, that it's something I discovered with him?"

"No," he said with a head-shake. "Though, I can't deny I'd been a little anxious, being away so long. I worried that you and Lafayette would have--found more in common--shifted away--"

"Shut up right there," demanded John. "We've taken comfort in each other, I won't deny that. And we both want to give you a proper welcome home, once you're up to it. But your absence has proven to me that you are the pivot, if you will, in our triangle. I keep a part of my heart for you, always, and another for the world. If I had to choose, Alexander, I would choose you over Gilbert. Every time. Perhaps that's imbalanced, but it's true."

"I think it's--inevitable. Maybe even natural. I feel the same, John--in fact, I once told him as much. But….have you been happy, John? With things as they are?

"I'm happy you're restored to us," John said. To make his point, he kissed Alexander again--not as an overture to more lovemaking, now, but in a comforting, cozy sort of way. 

"My good Jacky," Alexander breathed against John's lips.

"Ohhh, I have missed that," John sighed.

"You and Lafayette, working on your 'leadership'--doesn't he, er, praise you, then?"

John shook his head. "Not like that. I've kept that for you." His cheeks flushed as if embarrassed. "Maybe I should have--" 

"If that's what you want, my dear, it's all right with me." Alexander petted his hair, his shoulder. "I rather like the idea of exclusive rights to it, in fact."

"I don't know why I've reserved--I mean, it's complicated."

"Of course. I said it's all right. You don't have to explain, John." He rolled to his back and sat up. "So. What did I miss?"

~

There was so much to catch up on, John hardly knew where to start. He covered the official business first, updated Alexander on the troops and the movements of the army since Gibbs had been sent to join him. "You heard about Wilkinson's promotion?"

"A little something. Wilkinson was Gates's aide when I met him in Saratoga. Robert Troup wrote me to say he'd found his reprieve from Gates. There are so many better men for the job."

"Yes. But there's something else more infuriating than Wilkinson. Wait til you hear about General Conway."

He reviewed the news that Washington had been anonymously sent an excerpt of Gates' and Conway's correspondence. 

"Did you know Gates actually tried to shift blame onto you?"

"What?" Alexander leaned forward in excitement. "No! In what way?"

"He tried to claim that you'd been alone with access to private letters, and 'stealingly copied' them to make him look bad." Seeing Alexander's distress, John quickly assured him: "His Excellency categorically dismissed the idea that you would have done anything 'sneakingly' in the first place, let alone sent him anything you came by without signing your name."

The hurried assertion deflated Alexander's temper as suddenly as it had risen. "That's true…." 

They discussed His Excellency's response and the current efforts to track down the true source who had provided the letter, which John was leading chiefly by writing to his father, to keep Washington in command. "I wrote to my father so that he'd be prepared to fight against an injustice such as Conway is attempting." 

He was for once grateful to Alexander for being the sort of man who buried his own family history, and therefore sought no explanations from anyone else as to how they got along with their relations. Despite, or perhaps because of, his frequent letters to his father, he felt keenly the depth of Henry Laurens' disappointment, expressed in so many subtle ways. Omitting his rank, for example, or enclosing reminders to provide for Martha when she and little Frances were expected to arrive. He was hard-pressed to explain to anyone else the inadequacies his father created in him, or the way it affected him to hear someone else--no, not anyone else, _Alex_ \--use his nickname in association with approval. Alexander simply understood, followed his instinct, and gave John everything he could want without needing to be asked. It mortified John to have to _ask_ for the things he wanted.

The first time he had invited Alexander to call him "Jacky" it had slipped out--he hadn't even intended to say anything aloud. It had been almost a whim, just a passing fancy to hear someone say that particular name with no hint of condescension or reproof. From the moment Alexander said it, however, John's whole world shifted again. Alexander infused the nickname with so many things--love, kindness, admiration, of course, but also a command that was everything like and nothing like his father's imperious manner--that it was….wrong and right all at once. He didn't even need to think about it to decide that "Jacky" and "little Jacky" were solely the property of Alexander Hamilton, to do with as he would. He had not been able to bring himself to give Gilbert permission to use them, or the power they had over him, for all that their coupling had also had its unique benefits. It was something that he reserved for Alexander, and wanted no other to use.

It was not a proper attitude for a married man with wife and baby supposedly on their way to South Carolina, but in the weeks without Hamilton, John had come to realize how completely he belonged to the other man. He couldn't bear the thought of explaining about Martha and Frances--he didn't know how Hamilton would react, but some instinct told him it would be painful, possibly even catastrophic, to break the news. 

He shoved the thought to the back of his mind (with another apology to Lafayette for postponing his promise), and focused on the unstoppable force that had overtaken his affections. Hamilton's eyelids were drooping again.

"You _are_ exhausted. I've overtaxed you," John berated himself.

"Tired yes; overtaxed, no," said Alexander. He petted John's arm reassuringly. "I suppose we ought to dress and go down. Surely His Excellency is back by now."

"His Excellency wished me to make sure you are comfortable and rested from your journey," John replied, "and no one expects anything from you until tomorrow. Are you hungry?"

"Possibly not ever again," Alexander quipped. "Every time I was awake, it seemed, someone was trying to make me eat. No, I would rather keep you here if we are at liberty. Unless you're in need of a meal…?" he added as an afterthought.

"I'm quite content," John promised. "Let's see...what else have you missed? I can tell you about the battle at Whitemarsh."

"If you have anything glorious to say about it," Alexander teased. 

"Hm. Well, then, I can tell you about Swede's Ford."

"Was it horrifying?" Alexander asked, leaning back and inviting John to lie against him.

"Terrifying," John chuckled. "I'd have wet myself if the river hadn't obliged for me."

"Then I'm sorry I wasn't there." He rubbed his foot against John's. "What else?"

John was quiet for a moment, thinking. "Oh! I almost forgot. You had some post."

He could feel Alexander shrug. "For the war? Surely you opened that, it could have been important."

"The war correspondence, I did. No, _you_ had two letters. I've saved them, hang on--" he clambered out of bed and rummaged in Alexander's trunk. "Here we go. One's from a Reverend Henry Knox of St. Croix. Who's he?"

"A minister on St. Croix," Alexander answered, deadpan.

John rolled his eyes. Admittedly, he'd set himself up for the wisecrack. "Thank you, Colonel Obvious. Who's he to you?"

The smile on Alexander's lips froze and John felt a jolt of remorse--he'd pushed without intending it. He was just about to stammer that Alexander did not need to tell him, if he didn't want to (and of _course_ he didn't, John thought, and called himself ten types of idiot), when Alexander said, "A benefactor, of a sort. I can read it later. What's the other?"

"It's from Edinburgh University. From an Edward Stevens?" He flipped it in his hands to read the return address. 

"Neddy!" Alexander exclaimed. If he'd been guarded about the mysterious Rev. Knox, his joy at hearing this name was overwhelming. He even began to climb out of bed.

"Here," John said, bringing the letters over before Alexander could get to his feet. A pang of irrational jealousy rose in him. To tamp it down, he said, "I'll get dressed and see if I can cadge us some bread to toast up here, while you read your letters."

"Hm? Yes, all right," Alexander said distractedly. He was already opening "Neddy's" letter.

"Well. I'll be--right back, then," John said, pulling on his breeches and a pair of shoes. He threw on his shirt and waistcoat, hastily tied his cravat, and walked out.

When he returned, Alexander said, "Laurens, I'm sorry; I realize I must have seemed entirely abrupt just now."

"No, I know what it's like to receive news from a...loved one."

"Neddy was my first friend as a boy. He's been confirmed a doctor of medicine at Edinburgh." He had the grace to look sheepish. "Would you like to read it?"

"Only--only if you want me to."

"It's all right. It's rather amusing, except that he says he's written me and I never received anything." He held out the pages.

"Are you sure?" John's fingers itched at the thought of discovering more about Alexander's past.

"Yes, you'll enjoy it."

John sat beside him, absently handing over the half-loaf he had managed to sweet-talk from the kitchener. Alexander took the slices and slipped over to the fire to toast them. John read through Alexander's friend's letter. "He seems an altogether amiable fellow," he observed. It was vaguely disappointing that the letter had no revelations about Alexander, really, only that he had engendered another friend's love, which was wholly unsurprising.

"Ned's the finest, best friend anyone could have," Alexander agreed. He turned his head. "I should find it incredible if you've never had such a best friend, Laurens."

"I--had brothers," he answered. It was inadequate, and he knew it. "At school, my best friend by far was Francis Kinloch. He's in the militia now, in South Carolina. I suppose I feel about him like you do your Ned." _And Martha named our daughter after him because I'd mentioned he would have been my best man, if we'd had a proper wedding--but that was before I met you, Alex_ , he did not say. "Were you and--Ned--at school together?"

"King's College, yes. He was about a year ahead. But I've known him longer than that. We were...oh, about eight when we met."

John grinned. "You were never eight. I think you sprang into existence at twenty."

"Ha." Alexander paused. John held his breath; it seemed that Alex was considering whether to tell the story or not. John feared to say anything lest the spell break and Alexander remember that he never, ever talked about himself. 

"We'd just moved from Nevis to St. Croix," he said quietly. "And--there were some bullies. Ned came along and…well, we took an instant liking to each other. I suppose some friendships can be like that. Ours was," he added, indicating himself and John.

"Love at first sight," John teased.

"I don't believe in love at first sight," Alexander quipped. "Infatuation, perhaps."

"Were you--infatuated?"

"With Ned? We were eight," he laughed. 

John thought that being eight did not necessarily preclude a crush, but he let Alexander have his evasion. "Why were they bullying you?" he asked gently.

Alexander hesitated. "Because boys do that sort of thing," he said eventually. "About how things are here--tell me what's being done about rationing," he asked pointedly to change the subject.

~

A few days later, Alexander felt re-acclimated to life in the family. Just as Lafayette had told him, Washington was markedly more relieved at Hamilton's return than chagrined by his long absence. "You could not have done more, had you the staff of Moses in your hands, my boy," he told him. Meade insisted on examining him, to pronounce himself dissatisfied with Hamilton's rate of recovery, but heartily impressed by his endurance. Things returned to normal--with some exceptions. The winter usually brought a lull, but this winter in particular, they were faced with unusual challenges. Lack of food, blankets, shoes, and clothes were among the many hardships that added to their struggle. Possibly worse, however, were the seeming efforts of Congress to undermine their every attempt to produce an army capable of winning come spring. Such as the order Lafayette received to invade Canada.

"That's possibly the most terrible plan I've heard yet, and that includes Putnam thinking he could retake New York," Alexander concluded, when Lafayette had told him and Laurens about it.

"I can write to my father," Laurens offered. "I'll outline everything that's wrong with it. Get Congress to rescind it."

Lafayette hung his head. "'Ow can zey expect me to do it?"

"It's Conway. And Mifflin. They're trying to drive a wedge between you and Washington," Alexander said.

"I can't disobey, zough," Lafayette lamented.

"No. But it's winter and you've no preparation. It could take you months to pull your campaign together," Alexander observed.

"You're joking," Laurens said. "Months?"

Alexander shrugged. "I don't see another way around it, if Congress insists."

"Mon's," Lafayette repeated sadly. "Mon's away from you bos'."

"Laurens, when you write to your father," Alexander said slowly, thinking it through, "tell him everything you dare about Conway. And tell him that the Marquis wishes to remain in camp until Congress can give further deliberation and instruction--and that he cannot go at all if Washington is unaware of the order. Gilbert, write your own letter and say you will only accept orders that come through the General."

"Yes, that's good," Laurens agreed. He nudged Alexander with one elbow. "What were you working on all day?"

"Recommendations for the General. On new regulations to prevent theft. With so little here, men will be tempted to hoard."

"Or desert."

"That, too."

The rhythm of work was familiar and comfortable, even if the surroundings were anything of the sort. They spent some of their free time discussing and fleshing out Laurens' plan to use slaves as additional troops, refining it for Laurens' father's review. Hamilton worked somewhat fruitlessly on a training manual. Lafayette's departure for Albany hung over them, but his delay tactics, and discussion with the General, kept him present into early February. 

It could not last indefinitely, however, and on a bitterly cold day at the beginning of the next month, he received an unequivocal order to head north.

Lafayette spoke privately with Washington. When he emerged from the commander's office, his mouth was fixed in a tight frown. He caught Hamilton's eye, then Laurens'. His shoulders slumped as he girded himself for the cold and retreated outside.

Hamilton found the first excuse to slip away, nearly an hour later. Hugging a thin blanket around his shoulders, he trod through the snow to look for Lafayette. He found him with the horses. The dwindling harras was huddled together in a windbreak to one side of the compound. Lafayette had picked up a currying brush and was tenderly, slowly combing the flanks of a white charger. 

"'E say I mus' go," the Marquis said desolately.

"I know," Hamilton said. "It's folly."

"It's madness," Lafayette agreed. "But 'e say we 'ave to obey Congress. If we do not, zen 'is enemies will 'ave a perfect excuse to remove 'im."

"This is no way to fight a war," said Hamilton angrily. "How are we meant to impose discipline and improve morale when the very government appointed to direct our efforts is so wilfully corrosive?"

"'Am, _écoute-moi_ ," Lafayette said. "Ze general--'e will need support."

"I know--"

" _Non_ , listen. 'E loves you. I know 'e can be….oh, what is ze--ah, fractious," he said triumphantly, finding the word, "but 'e needs you--your mind, your skill. Promise me you will not tax 'im while I am gone."

"I've never--"

"You do not do it deliberately, but your ambition, _mon cher_." He let the statement hang, representing all the ways that Hamilton chafed under Washington, all the times he suppressed his instinct to clash tempers. "Let me return, at least, before you ask for command again."

"I promised myself long before you came, Gilbert, that if anything caused the General and I to rupture, it would not be my doing."

Lafayette held his gaze, his hands still on the horse's side. His fingers had grown red with the cold. The animal disliked the pause and whickered irritably. "'Ush, Blueskin," he told the steed, and resumed grooming him. At hearing the horse's name, Hamilton realized belatedly that this was not Lafayette's own mount he was tending, but Washington's. "'Am, God keep you, I do not know 'ow it is you refuse to accept 'is affection."

Hamilton's face darkened. "It's an odd sort of affection. Gilbert--" he continued quickly, cutting off a protest that Lafayette drew breath to register-- "you ignore that your...relationship...with His Excellency is unique. Do not assume that others receive the same esteem from him--or that we look for it."

His voice sounded dangerous, even to him. With a shaking breath, he adopted a more conciliatory tone. "I know you mean well, my dear, and I'm grateful. But please. I don't want to quarrel."

"Nor I. I will only say, zen, zat it will be vital to remember zat you 'ave a greater goal, hein? And to be forgiving of each ozzer whenever it's necessary."

"Fair enough," Hamilton agreed. "For my part, that's always been my attitude. When do you go?"

"Tomorrow. Tonight, I dine alone wis 'Is Excellency, but--after? Shall I find you and Laurens?"

"Yes, do."

~

It was so late when they heard Lafayette's tread on the stairs to their attic, both Hamilton and Laurens feared he was not coming at all. They had discussed Laurens' latest letter to his father while they waited, which detailed his battalion plan, and Laurens' anxiety over whether his father would endorse his request to start the effort with the 40 slaves which were nominally his. "The worst he can say is no," Hamilton pointed out. "You don't lose anything by trying."

That had been hours previously. Now, Laurens was dozing against Hamilton's leg, the latter sitting up by candlelight with his ever-present books. He had just about determined to blow out the lamp when he heard the light creak of the step. He nudged Laurens awake.

Lafayette scratched at the door. "My apologies," he said when Hamilton let him inside. "We had more to discuss zan I sought." If it was an indication of the depth of feeling between Lafayette and Washington, then it was also a diplomatic way to avoid the subject of his and Hamilton's discussion from the afternoon. 

"We're just glad you still came up," Laurens told him, rubbing his eyes sleepily. 

"I see I'm lagging behind," Lafayette commented as he regarded the others dressed for bed. 

"Well, catch up," Hamilton chuckled, "or we'll help you." To demonstrate, he removed the Marquis' jacket.

" _Vite_ , my dear. It's cozy up 'ere, but not warm enough." He was right--they had their ration of firewood, which was barely enough to keep the room livable when fully clothed. "I've run out of brandy," he grumbled.

"We'll warm you," John promised. He brought Lafayette to the bed and hugged him from behind while Alexander removed his boots. He massaged the tight muscles in Gilbert's shoulders and back. "Tonight is for you," he whispered. " _N'oublier-pas tons amis_." 

"'Ow could I forget my dearest friends?" Gilbert gasped. Alexander had unfastened his flies and now eased the seat down, requiring Gilbert to lift his arse temporarily. As he freed the garment, Alexander brushed his fingers across Gilbert's taint. 

Eyes shining with mischief, Alexander knelt between Gilbert's legs. "John….I think Gilbert's still cold. There's a stub here where a man's--"

" _Casse-toi!_ " Gilbert cried in a mockery of offense. "Give it a tag and see 'ow it changes."

John giggled. "A _tug_ , Gilbert--your English has improved immeasurably but there are still the strangest gaps."

"It's not like he's _needed_ perfect fluency," Alexander reminded him. "Still. This is our last opportunity for a lesson for some time to come. Perhaps we ought to administer an examination."

"I 'ate you bos'," Gilbert muttered, smiling.

"Mm-hmm. Definitely needs a test of what he's learned," John concurred. "An _oral_ examination."

"Oh, yes," Alexander agreed. 

"The question is, which one of us will be his proctor?" John asked, eyes shining. "I think he should demonstrate technique on you, Alex, while I adjudicate."

"Ha, well, I've no objection," Alexander said, cocking his head toward Lafayette. "Though that doesn't exactly test his command of English. What does our pupil think?"

"In my experience, ze pupil is 'ardly given a choice. But if you ask me, I say it tests my command of ze Americains, not ze English. Do your worst."

John draped his arms around Gilbert's shoulders. "I can see rather well from here," he said. "Alex, will you be too cold?"

"No," Alexander promised. He stood on his knees to offer Gilbert his prick. Gilbert slid down further, resting his head on John's thighs, so that John and Alexander could also make contact. As he went to work, he reached up behind his head to fondle John's testicles.

"Taking on--oh!--two foes at once," John said. "He's confident."

"Cocky, even," Alexander said, causing Gilbert and John both to groan. "And he understands--ah!--the pun. I'd say successful comprehension."

"So far so good," John agreed.

Then Gilbert really focused on his task, and neither of them had much more to say for a while. He tended to John's shaft with one hand; Alexander's with the other and his tongue. Alexander and John, meanwhile, leaned in to one another for closed-eyed kisses. Each placed one hand on the other's chest, and one hand on Gilbert's head for encouragement. The pyramid they formed writhed in a steady, building rhythm. Soon, Gilbert had Alexander spending his load. Without missing a beat, he twisted in John's lap to switch his attention downward onto John's cock. 

With a strangled cry, John came in Gilbert's mouth. " _Le petit mort_ ," Gilbert recited after swallowing. He flipped over, prompting Alexander to move his leg so he could escape. "Orgasm, _en Anglais. Ai-je réussi votres examen_?"

" _Oui!_ " they both said. 

"And I know what we'll do to reward you," Alexander said. He whispered in John's ear.

John nodded. He coaxed Gilbert onto one side, and Alexander slid down to begin reciprocating, mouth on Gilbert's prick. John waited for a moment, admiring the view, then shifted end-over-end in the bed. He spread Gilbert's cheeks and dove in with his own tongue and fingers.

By the time Gilbert was gasping for breath, John was hard again. He pushed further into Gilbert's hole, probing for the spot that would make him shudder in pleasure/pain. With three fingers inside, he repositioned himself again rightwise, behind Gilbert, and reached for the oil. Alexander supported Gilbert's leg as he lifted it. John slicked himself quickly and held Gilbert open to poke the head of his prick in while he drew his fingers out.

"Ahhhhh!" Gilbert moaned. John took short, controlled thrusts. Alexander lifted his head to watch them admiringly. "Alex, _Nom de Dieu_ , don' stop!"

"Alex, now," John said. To Gilbert's astonishment, Alexander did not return to a close examination of his erection, but threw his leg over Gilbert's bottom one and slid between it and the leg in the air, his prick poised by Gilbert's rear. 

John added a little oil to Alexander's hardened rod. He put pressure on Gilbert's back to bend him toward Alexander more. Gilbert turned awkwardly, trying not to lose John's cock inside him. They managed the difficult adjustment. Then, very carefully, John pulled out halfway, and Alexander stretched Gilbert even further with his fingertip, to add his own dick to Gilbert's passageway. 

The fit was tight--tighter than anything any of them had ever experienced. "I--I'm going to--" Gilbert panted, bucking despite his attempts to stay still, to let his lovers dictate their pace. He lost control quickly, spurting onto Alexander's abdomen. The hot liquid brought Alexander to the edge, but he fought to remain alive a little while longer, while he and John found a tandem rhythm. Still, the feeling of John's cock sliding alongside his own, in the narrow channel of Gilbert's arse, was too much for him. And John as well. They both spilled over in a matter of moments. 

Alexander pulled out gently and John followed. Gilbert grunted into Alexander's chest.

"Are you all right?" Alexander asked.

His answer came in the form of a joyful sob and the friction of a nodding head. " _Mais, je besoin d'une minute, mes amours_." He paused. " _Je m'excuse, j'ai oublier--ehm, je voulais dire--Ah, non. L'anglais toujours, hein_?"

"That's not English," Alexander pointed out.

"It wasn't?" Gilbert asked, bewildered. "I sought it was. I forgot 'ow for a moment."

"Success," muttered John, muffled by Gilbert's back. He dissolved in breathless giggles. Alexander and Gilbert joined him. 

They collapsed for a while, heedless of the mess, in perfect, if too-brief, bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Alexander reflects on the nature of lifelong friendship....
> 
> French Translations:  
> écoute-moi - listen to me  
> Vite - quick(ly)  
> Ai-je réussi votres examen - Have I passed your test?  
> Nom de Dieu - (in the) name of God  
> Mais, je besoin d'une minute, mes amours - but I need a minute, my loves  
> Je m'excuse, j'ai oublier--ehm, je voulais dire--Ah, non. L'anglais toujours, hein - Sorry, I've forgotten - I mean to say - Oh, no. English always, huh?
> 
>  
> 
> Almost done! I'm gonna just withhold more comments 'til the end.... (Except to say: Yes, the white horse that Washington rode for a good part of the war was named Blueskin.)


	20. Lesson Number 20: A Friendship

Early the next morning, well in the dark of night before dawn, Lafayette gently shook Alexander's shoulder to wake him. 

"Mm?" he said, nestling closer. "It's not time yet, surely?" he asked.

" _Non_ , not yet. Alexandre, I...I want to talk to you about somesing serious."

Warmth spread in the back of Alexander's head to wake him further. "Serious? What is it?"

"It's important zat you listen to me and trust my judgment on zis matter. We 'ave no way to know 'ow long Congress will insist on zis plan _ridicule_ and detain me in Albany."

"I know, and you have my sympathies," Alexander said with a squeeze of his arm.

" _Merci_ , but zat's not why I say it. I don' want you or Laurens to feel...awkward, or odd, about ze closeness between you while I am gone."

Alexander twisted in Lafayette's arms to look at him. The wall felt cool against his back, through the coverlet. On Gilbert's other side, John had turned his back to them, One knee and one arm hung precariously over the side of the narrow bed. He was snoring lightly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean...you are bos' dear to me, and I am very glad we 'ave 'ad so mush time togezzer. But I know--I can tell--zat ze bonds between you and Laurens are stronger, in many ways, zan I share wis eizer of you. I don' wish you to feel you mus' 'old yourselves back only because I am gone. If we are lucky enough to be reunited, _bon_. If you form an attachment to eash ozzer and a love zat I cannot… _penetrate_ ," he smiled at the pun he'd made, "I accept zat. I am going; you are staying. _Alors_ , I wish you to know zat I release you bos' wis' a full 'eart."

"How awfully dramatic," Alexander said. His heart was tightening and his breath came in more shallow drafts than a moment ago. His stomach felt hollow all of a sudden. "You're bowing out, just like that, because you're afraid we'll, what…get used to not having you with us?"

Gilbert shook his head. " _Non_. It's more zan zat. I 'ave to tell you, while you were gone--Laurens, 'e was like a different person. Not among ze family, not where anyone else might notice, but, alone. 'E was...a ghost of 'imself. 'E loves you wiz 'is 'ole being. Oh, 'e cares for me, too, _bien sûr_ , but--not like 'e does you. And you, my dear, you sink of 'im before most ozzer considerations. Do you deny it?"

"...No," Alexander said sadly. "But Gilbert, we've always known you have a wife, whom you love, and this is--well, let's call it recreation, for you. Why must anything change?"

The younger man smiled with a wisdom that belonged on a much more mature face. " _Parce-que, la vie apporte des changements_. It's no one's fault, Alexandre, least of all yours. You've done everysing possible to keep us all togezzer. But… you and 'e belong to eash ozzer. It was wrong of me to interpose myself, and it would be selfish of me to try to 'old on to ze place between you. Better we end now, before you or John begin to resent me, while we can all remain ze best of friends."

Alexander wanted to argue, to insist that they could withstand any hardships, including a lengthy hiatus, and still maintain their bond--but he also acknowledged the prudence of Gilbert's statements. It exhibited a foresight and an understanding that, Alexander realized, was completely accurate. Lafayette would winter in Albany, for who knew how long. If he actually managed an incursion to Canada, he would need extraordinary luck and skill to survive, let alone succeed. And who knew where he and John would be when Lafayette returned? He could not expect them _not_ to enjoy each other's company while he was gone--and it was inevitable that, that being the case, they would draw much closer to one another in his absence. It was especially so considering that they were not married men, unlike Gilbert. The situation had, in a way, come full circle from their first encounter. Or perhaps it had never altered. They were still caught in the same spiral that had begun the previous August--incredibly, not even six months ago!--where each of them worried at different times over his place in their trio. He could not disagree with Gilbert's logic. As things stood, as much as he loved Lafayette, he would still choose Laurens if a choice had to be made.

"I don't want to lose you," he said aloud.

" _Mon cher_ , you are not losing me. I told you once zat I'm going to live, and so are you. I gladly joined zis fight, as you say, and I'm not giving up on it. And I 'ope we remain loving friends all our long lives, you and I and John. _Le trio gai, n'est-ce pas?_ But--I ought to 'ave known when you firs' told me about Laurens, zat I am...in ze way. I cannot risk your love turning to 'ate."

"It will never turn to hate," Alexander promised.

"I'm glad," Lafayette said. "Zen you will understand why I mus' wis'draw. Believe me, _cher_ , it's not because I wish to do it. It's because I love you and Laurens too mush _not_ to do it."

Alexander did understand. It still felt like being abandoned, but it made sense to his head, if not his heart. Lafayette smiled and kissed his forehead. "It's still a little while before _reveille_. Go back to sleep."

" _Je t'adore, Gilbert,_ " Alexander said, his voice cracking with suppressed emotion.

" _Et je t'adore aussi, Alexandre. Dormes, mon petit lion_."

Alexander turned toward the wall and closed his eyes, letting Gilbert's warm embrace remind him that this was just the inescapable reality of life, catching up to them--as he had always known it would do. He fervently hoped Lafayette was right and that they would prove steadfast in friendship. It wasn't impossible. He counted others in a similar category, with an equally intimate, though far less carnal, connection. Robbie Troup often felt closer to him than his own brother, after all. And of course, there was Neddy….

>   
>  _Alexander waited until the village children had run down the street, their taunts fading as they turned the corner. He unwound himself out of his defensive crouch and kicked away the shards of the bottle one of them had thrown. His brother lay in the grass, face up. One of his cuffs was torn. A trickle of blood snaked down his cheek._
> 
> _"Jamie?" Alexander asked quietly._
> 
> _"M'all right," James said without opening his eyes._
> 
> _"No, you're not," Alexander pronounced. He fished in his coat pocket for the handkerchief Maman insisted he carry. It took up valuable room that might have been spent on pebbles or shells, but it was just as well he had it today. He knelt by his brother and mopped the bloodtrail. James took the handkerchief and held it to his face, eyes still closed._
> 
> _"Don't tell them about this," James said after a moment._
> 
> _"Shan't have a choice. You've a black eye coming already. And that cut."_
> 
> _Jamie sat up. "_ Merde _," he said as he blinked his eyes open. "Your hand is cut, too," he pointed out. It was true: the back of Alexander's left hand had a small gash. When he'd shielded his face with his hands, the shattered bottle must have sliced him. James grabbed his hand and inspected it for any ground glass. Then he took out his own handkerchief and tied it clumsily around Alexander's palm._
> 
> _"It's us, isn't it," Alexander said, looking off in the direction the boys had gone. "There's something wrong with us."_
> 
> _"Stop saying that. They'll leave us alone soon enough._ Ça va prendre du temps _, Maman said."_
> 
> _"But how_ much _time?" Alexander whined. "We're losing ground. What about schooling? And church and--everything else?"_
> 
> _"_ Il faut être patient _," James repeated Maman's advice with the air of maturity. "We've only been here a month. Who cares about lessons, anyway? I don't. And church--Maman reads us Bible lessons, doesn't she? That counts. I'm sure of it. Besides, I told you. Father will fix it all. Then they'll all be sorry."_
> 
> _"What if he--can't?" He didn't dare say "won't" because, for one thing, he knew James would get upset again. Moreover, Alexander hated to consider that Father might have an opportunity to clear up all the "misunderstandings" that had troubled Maman since they arrived here, and would choose_ not _to act. But it seemed lately that Father believed their present circumstances were all Maman's fault, and if those other boys were to be believed, that wasn't so far from the truth. Also, it lately occurred to him that James seemed to have more faith in Father than he did, though he wasn't sure why._
> 
> _"If he can't fix things then...I don't know, maybe we'll move again."_
> 
> _"Maybe we should move anyway. I hate it here." He stood up and toed the grass with one shoe._
> 
> _"We could go back to Nevis."_
> 
> _"I hate Nevis, too."_
> 
> _James could have argued, told Alexander he didn't mean it. At least on Nevis they'd gone to lessons, and Maman and Father were "Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton." On the other hand, Nevis was only three miles long in any direction, and everyone knew everyone, and there was nothing to do of any interest ever. In Christiansted, there were occasionally trials of pirates, and one could ride a horse for more than an hour without going all the way round the island._
> 
> _But James didn't defend Christiansted, nor press for the meager advantages of Nevis. Instead, he said: "Well, St. Kitts, maybe. That's where Maman and Father met. They were happy there. I don't think that horrid man Lavien has any influence there, either. Maybe we'll go there instead."_
> 
> _"It doesn't matter, does it," Alexander observed, his gaze drifting in the direction of the harbor. "If it's true, people will find out. They always find out."_
> 
> _James said nothing. There wasn't anything to say. Alexander helped him climb to his feet._
> 
> _"Jamie…_ Do _you think it's true? I mean, it couldn't be, right? I mean, that Maman really is an--an adulteress?" Alexander asked._
> 
> _James launched himself at Alexander and pinned him to the ground. "_ Never _say that again!" he said, pushing Alexander's arms into the dust._
> 
> _"I'm just asking!" Alexander cried. His lip trembled._
> 
> _"She's not and don't you_ dare _ask about it._ Jamais _!" James went on. He pressed on Alexander's wrists again until Alexander kicked him._
> 
> _"Let me up!" he shouted. He twisted one wrist free and punched his brother's ribs. For all his slightness and the two years James had on him, Alexander was quicker and more agile, and soon enough he had thrown James off. They tumbled in the dirt and grass together. James struck blindly and cracked Alexander in the lower jaw._
> 
> _Their angry fight ended abruptly when Alexander cried out in genuine pain. His mouth bloomed bright red where his teeth had cut his own lip. As quickly as he had attacked, James scooped up Alexander's bloody handkerchief and knelt in front of him._
> 
> _"Here, let me see," he said, reaching for Alexander's mouth._
> 
> _"Ow!" Alexander flinched. Tears spilled from his eyes._
> 
> _"All right--stop whining--shh,_ c'est bien _." James daubed tenderly with the handkerchief, his own wounds forgotten. "You shouldn't have irked me," he pointed out._
> 
> _"I was just--ow, ow!--asking a question, Jamie. I wasn't accusing her of anything--OW, leave it--_ kthsss _!" He broke off in a hiss. His arms jerked upward, shoving Jamie away reflexively when Jamie touched one of his remaining baby teeth: a bottom canine, now knocked loose by his brother's punch._
> 
> _"Are you all right?" a new voice asked._
> 
> _They turned to the source, and Alexander found himself looking in his mirror._
> 
> _Well, not exactly. The boy standing in front of them was a little older than he, but younger than James. He was broader than Alexander, his hair three or four shades darker, his face a little chubbier, and his eyes weren't the same color. But the set of those eyes, his nose and chin, the way he held himself, were uncanny. Mostly, though, it was obvious from his blue suit and the lace at his throat and wrists, the shine on his buckles, that his family were a good deal wealthier than Father and Maman._
> 
> _"We're fine," said James gruffly. "Tell your friends we're ready for another round if that's what they're looking for."_
> 
> _"What friends?" the newcomer asked in confusion. "I'm by myself. I thought I heard fighting and--someone in distress." He peeked around at Alexander at this, making Alexander blush._
> 
> _"Well, you're wrong," James proclaimed, but the statement was ridiculous. Their intimate scuffle had left them even more disheveled and bloody than the bullies' attack. They'd added fresh grass and dirt stains to their clothes. James's cuff had torn even looser, and Alexander had lost a button off his waistcoat. His mouth really hurt. He wondered if the tooth would come out immediately or hang on for a day before it tore away from the gum, and he considered speeding it along. "No problems here," his brother continued._
> 
> _The stranger was not scared off by James's gruff manner, however. He stepped forward, smiling benignly, his hand out. "Well, I'm glad to hear it, then. Edward Stevens, at your service."_
> 
> _"James Hamilton," James muttered with a desultory shake. "My brother, Alexander."_
> 
> _"Are you new to Christiansted?" Edward asked. "What I mean is, do you live nearby? You look as though you could both use a wash. And mayhap some bandages."_
> 
> _Alexander spoke very quickly, to compensate for James's hostility toward the boy. "Hullo, verynicetomeetyou, yes, wejustmovedhereamonthago. We live--" Alexander started to say that their house was only one street over, but James cut him off._
> 
> _"Close enough, thanks. We're fine." He plucked his hat off the ground and put a possessive arm around Alexander's shoulders. "Come on, Alex."_
> 
> _"Wait," said Edward. "My house is just up the street. If you like, you could clean yourselves up a bit before you go home. If your mother's like mine, you're bound to have some explaining to do. You could at least minimize the trouble."_
> 
> _James regarded him warily. "How do we know there's not a pack of your friends waiting for us?"_
> 
> _"I told you, I'm alone."_
> 
> _Alexander squirmed free of his brother. "He wasn't with them, Jamie. Do you go to the village school?" he asked._
> 
> _It was Edward's turn to blush. "No. My brothers and I have a tutor. Aren't_ you _at the school?"_
> 
> _"Not just yet," Alexander admitted. "But I want to go. Only I'll still need a tutor for Greek. I heard Mr. Van Engstrom tell our mother that the master's Greek is absolutely impossible."_
> 
> _"Have you read Homer?" Edward asked quickly._
> 
> _"Yes! I read some parts of the_ Odyssey _last year. But I prefer the_ Iliad _."_
> 
> _"Oh, I love the_ Iliad _! Do you like Achilles best, or Hector?" said Edward._
> 
> _"Both!" They began chattering at each other about their favorite parts of the stories._
> 
> _"All right, girls, break it up," James said angrily. "Say goodbye, Alexander. We're going home."_
> 
> _"But--"_
> 
> _"_ It'll be dark soon, _" James insisted, switching to French with another unfriendly glance at Edward. "_ And we'll need Esther to clean us up before supper _."_
> 
> _"It's not dark, it's only just teatime," Edward put in. Clearly French was not a barrier to him. "Why not come back to my house? Our Jocasta can clean you up, really."_
> 
> _"Let's do, James, please?" Alexander said, trying to sound more like he was pleading and less like he was taking charge. He already liked Edward and he wanted their conversation to last a little longer._
> 
> _"And you can stay for tea," Edward added suddenly. "I'm sure it'll be all right."_
> 
> _The prospect of food, and from the look of Edward, good food at that, swayed James. It figured that would work better than the ability to erase the worst evidence of their encounters with the neighborhood bullies, before they submitted to the household's scrutiny._
> 
> _"Fine, if you like," said James, managing to introduce more than a hint of irritation into accepting._
> 
> _Edward was true to his promise. The woman Jocasta was a little brusque, but nothing worse than Maman's maid in her worst tempers. She clucked over James's eye, put salves on their cuts, and recommended that Alexander yank his tooth out before it broke. Then she plated up some cakes and one slice each of a dense, nutty bread with real butter, and measured out three small cups of goat's milk with just a smidge of rum apiece._
> 
> _James wanted to leave several times, but each time he grew anxious to go, something kept them. First Edward, bonding with Alexander over books, offered to show them his father's library. Then Alexander's tooth fell out the rest of the way, gushing blood everywhere that had to be cleaned up. Next, Edward's mother wanted to meet his new (and apparently messy) friends. Both James and Alexander were a bit embarrassed to meet so fine a lady with their clothes stained and their bruises coming in, but she was gracious and, with an indulgent look at Edward, told them to be sure to call again when "Neddy" was not occupied in lessons. She even gave Alexander a little napkin for his lost tooth. It was after sunset by the time James was able to effect an escape, dragging Alexander with him._
> 
> _They had not gone as much as a block when Edward came running after them. "Alex!" he called. Alexander turned and walked back a few steps; a little ways up the street, James also waited, his arms crossed. Edward trotted up. "Here," he said, shoving a book into Alexander's hand. "You can borrow this if you like. Just bring it back when you're done; that way you've a perfect excuse to come and see me. You said you can read French?"_
> 
> _"_ Oui _," Alexander confirmed. He looked down at a handsome leatherbound volume of Molière's plays._
> 
> _"Have you read them?" Edward asked nervously._
> 
> _"No. I--Edward, I--"_
> 
> _"Told you, call me Neddy. Read them and come back, all right?"_
> 
> _"Neddy," Alexander said reverently. "I--I'll take care with this, and read it right away," Alexander promised. He ran his hand along the beautifully stamped pages and rich cover. Then impulsively, he threw his arms around his almost-twin. "I'll see you soon, I hope," he told the other._
> 
> _Neddy hugged him back. "Me, too. I'm really glad we happened to meet, Alex." They parted and Ned ran back to his house; Alexander, in a daze, stumbled back to where James awaited him._
> 
> _"You're a freak, you know that," James observed. "All doe-eyed over a book."_
> 
> _"Not a book. A_ friend _," Alexander pointed out._
> 
> _"Not for long," James muttered darkly._
> 
> _"Don't be jealous," Alexander said, stung. He ran his tongue into the hole left by his missing tooth._
> 
> _"I'm not. Don't tell me you didn't notice."_
> 
> _"Notice what?"_
> 
> _"The way Mrs. Stevens looked at you. Us," he amended quickly, but his implication was clear._
> 
> _"I thought you said there's nothing wrong with us," Alexander shot back brattily._
> 
> _"There isn't. But she doesn't know that. We're not exactly at our best."_
> 
> _"Suppose not," Alexander had to agree. "Still, she was kind. She could have had us thrown out."_
> 
> _"She was trying; she was just being polite about it. Mark my words, she'll make sure you never get to play with your little girlfriend again."_
> 
> _Alexander said nothing at first. He thought he could guess why James was being so hurtful, and he wanted to think through all his counterarguments before he said anything about it. He and Ned had some superficial resemblance--that could not really be denied. But the idea that it lent weight to what those boys had said about Maman was simply incredible. She couldn't have known Ned's father--they'd never left Nevis since long before Alexander had been born, until they came here to St. Croix. She and Father never even so much as quarreled before they came here, either, so it made no sense that she'd gone and--and done that sort of thing. But what did they know about Ned's father? Nothing. Maybe he'd been to Nevis, maybe during one of the times Father had gone to another island on business for Mr. Ingram. Maybe she really was an adulteress, like those boys had said._
> 
> _His doubts vanished, however, when they arrived home. Of course, they had to endure scolding from Maman and all of the house servants, from Ajax's mama Esther's clucking over their tardiness, all the way to Flora's scorching rebukes about the state of their clothes. But once they explained about the neighborhood boys, he could tell they weren't really in trouble. Beyond that, he couldn't believe that Maman would behave as wickedly as people said. Not when she was so caring and dismayed about what had happened to them._
> 
> _She didn't miss the book in Alexander's hands, either. When he described meeting Ned, quickly so as not to allow James to characterize the encounter, she seemed genuinely happy for him._
> 
> _"Do you know Mrs. Stevens, Maman?" he asked._
> 
> _"No. I can't say I'm acquainted with the Stevens family--though of course, I've heard of them. Well, it was very generous of this young man to lend it to you, dear. You must take care to return it good as new."_
> 
> _"I will," he promised. Slyly, he ventured: "Maman, what does Ned's father do?"_
> 
> _"He's a merchant, here in town, I think," she said off-handedly--which was both disappointing in its lack of information, and very reassuring in her lack of reaction. Then, in French, she said, "_ Now, let me see where your tooth came out, love _."_
> 
> _"It doesn't hurt anymore," he assured her._
> 
> _"All the same, you must rinse with warm water and salt. Yes," she insisted when he pulled a disgusted face. "_ Allez _, go and tell Rebecca to give it to you. Then Ajax will help you change to a fresh suit."_
> 
> _As he went into the kitchen to comply, he concluded that James's fears were unfounded. Maman had probably never even met Mr. Stevens face to face. He was sure that Ned couldn't be his half-brother, despite an eerie resemblance. All the same, he had a sudden premonition that the two of them might share bonds that were closer than blood…._  
> 

Alexander shifted in his sleep. He felt for the warm body next to his, fit his arm around it and spooned up. He expected to breathe in the scent of Lafayette's pomade, but instead, it was John's hair that tickled his nose. He opened his eyes slowly. Gilbert had gone. Out of the window, he could see in the pre-dawn light that it was snowing. As always, he marveled at how snow blanketed the earth and muffled everything around it. Then John closed his hands over Alexander's arm and squeezed comfortingly.

"Mm… you awake? Gilbert said he had to go dress," he murmured sleepily. "But he told me I should ask what you and he talked about?"

"Oh. He just--told me to take care of you while he's gone."

"Really. One would think he'd tell _me_ to take care of _you_."

"Maybe he doesn't think you need the instruction."

"What's wrong?" John asked, leaning backward to look over his shoulder. "Alex?"

"It's snowing."

"It's winter." John hugged him tighter. "But I agree it's much warmer right here."

They drifted at the edge of sleep, delaying the moment when they would have to get up. Alexander was just about to drop off again when John said, "I suppose you must still have trouble adjusting to the cold."

"Only when it's especially frigid. But then, the islands were always a little too hot. Humid." He paused. Softly, rather philosophically, he continued, "The first time I saw snow, I was in New York, at King's College. I thought I'd gone deaf at first. Isn't that ridiculous?" He smiled down at John, who was watching him as if Alexander's story was a gift. Perhaps it was. "But it's true. It had been raining the night before, turning to a freezing sort of sleet as it grew darker. I went to sleep to the sound of icy droplets falling, hitting the roof and the porch of Mulligan's shop. But overnight, the sleet turned to snow. I woke up before my roommate did, in a weak daylight just like this. I could see these large flakes falling, but--there was no sound. None at all. I jumped out of bed and went closer to the window to look because I...I thought I couldn't hear. No one ever mentioned that snow makes no noise when it lands. I was literally in awe--I don't think I'd ever recalled such silence. I know that sounds insane but--it was so quiet. Beautiful, but disturbingly quiet. I couldn't even trust that my own voice was sounding in my ears and not just in my head. And I didn't want to shout and cause the whole house any alarm. I just sat there at the window, watching the snow, trying not to panic. It wasn't until Robbie roused and I confirmed that there was nothing wrong that I could appreciate how peaceful fresh snowfall could be."

John said nothing. He had flipped onto his back, and was looking at Alexander with sadness, but the sadness was tempered with a shining admiration. He kissed Alexander's lips gently and played with a forelock of his hair that would not tuck behind his ear. 

"Were you always so alone?" he asked softly.

Alexander drew a shaky breath. His chest tightened. This was the moment when he would usually deflect, evade or downplay the subject. But the memory of meeting Ned was fresh--conjured, no doubt, by Lafayette's assurance of lifelong friendship and brotherhood. And Laurens, of anyone else in the world, was the sort whom Alexander might trust to understand.

"Not quite--not the way you mean. My mother--died when I was twelve. Father--our father left us about two years before then. Last I heard he was on St. Vincent's. They weren't allowed to marry, you see; an edict arranged by my mother's odious first husband. She had a son by that marriage, who came to the colonies years ago. And I--have a brother," he said haltingly. "His name is James, after my father."

"Older or younger?" John asked.

"Two years older. He took up a trade when--when our guardian died, a few months after our mother passed. And I've a much older cousin from my mother's family, named Ann Lytton. She married a man named Venton. They had emigrated to New York when James and I were children."

"And your friend Ned," John added.

"Yes, Neddy. His parents took me in after James left for his apprenticeship. I've been blessed with many friends and benefactors. They took up a collection to send me to school, after the hurricane of '72. Reverend Knox, whose letter you asked about, he was...instrumental in that effort. So were my employers, and Cousin Ann. But--yes. One way or another, I've always been alone." He held John close. "Not anymore."

"No. Not anymore." John turned in his arms so that their pelvises ground together. He rolled atop Alexander and proceeded to show him how very not alone he was.

~

Everyone turned out in their parade best to see Lafayette off. He walked along the line, his aides behind him, and Washington looking wan and mournful by his side. Many times, the Marquis paused to embrace his companions. More than a few faces were wet with tears, which froze in the cold and mingled with the snow falling on them. 

Finally, he came to Washington's own aides. Gibbs and Harrison wished him well solemnly. MacHenry threw his arms about him and kissed both cheeks enthusiastically. "Bless you, lad, and _bonchance_ ," he said. Meade's eyes burned with indignation. "Can't believe they're sending you, but, you're the man for it, if it must be done," he confided. Hamilton barely saw his lips move, and only heard because he was standing directly next to him. 

Then the Marquis stood before him. " _Adieu, mon cher Marquis_ ," he choked out, lip trembling. They embraced and kissed right, left, and right again. " _And take care of yourself. If you don't come back in one piece, I'll kill you myself. Don't make me write to your wife to tell her that you're dead._ "

"Non, I would like less you writing to 'er to say you were ze one responsible, 'Am." He grinned, but the smile did not reach his eyes. " _J'aime bien, mon ami_ ," he said with formality, and embraced him again. 

Laurens was next, and exchanged nearly as affectionate a goodbye. They also whispered, but Hamilton could not hear what they said. He got the impression they wanted to conceal it from him. As he tried not to show his suspicion on his face, he caught Washington's eye by accident. The General had been--yes, he had been almost smiling at the two of them, Hamilton and Lafayette, with a paternal sort of pride. Hamilton blushed a bit and quickly slid his eyes away before Washington looked directly back at him. Lafayette's requests and observations about Washington came back to him, and for the younger man's sake, if not the older one's, he promised to renew his faith in the commander, and to make more of an outward effort to demonstrate devotion. At least while Lafayette was not there to do it himself.

At last, Lafayette moved on to Tilghman, who was trying not to weep openly, and when they had said farewell, the Frenchman turned to Washington. He saluted formally. Then, in an impetuous gesture _only_ he could have gotten away with, Gilbert engulfed the taller man in a tight hug. Hamilton could not hear him, but he distinctly saw Lafayette's lips move as he backed off and then gave Washington an enthusiastic _baiser_. "Papa," he had called him, and to Hamilton's surprise, Washington had been...delighted. There was no obvious sign, for the man never really gave himself away, but to anyone who had spent as much time with him as Hamilton, it was clear in the way Washington did _not_ stiffen, did _not_ step back, did not bluster or frown or glare, or in any other respect indicate to Lafayette that he was entirely out of line. Instead, Washington set his jaw and, swallowing, saluted his Major-General before shaking his hand. 

"Report as often as you can, dearest boy," he said, and released the other.

"I shall write daily," Lafayette promised, "or as often as zere is news. _Adieu, mon père_."

"Go with God," Washington said. Then Lafayette swung into his saddle, his aides did likewise, and they rode out. Most of the men went back into the relative warmth of their huts as soon as his battalions began to follow their general. Hamilton, Laurens, and Washington stood in silence, watching until the Frenchman's hat was completely out of sight.

~

>   
>  **To Major-General duMotier, Marquis de Lafayette, from A. Hamilton and J. Laurens** [Valley Forge, 28 February, 1778]  
>  _Dear Marquis,_
> 
> _By your favors, we received word of your safe arrival in Albany. His Excellency was much relieved to know that you had passed through the perils of frozen rivers, ice storms and other hazards, and now have only to endure the misery of a bleak season away from your loving family. Our own situation is just as wretched. Laurens recently returned from a foraging party with our esteemed friend General Greene, as empty-handed as when they left. (The only bright spot we can find in this is that it used no ammunition, for we are as low on_ bullets _as we are_ pullets _.) Four horses died this week, and they were without ceremony butchered and distributed for meat. We pray that the country in which you now reside has proved more hospitable._
> 
> _There is a wealth of news to impart, though we are not sure it can be entrusted to our cyphers. Better ones need to be devised. Let that be a goal for you, if you are otherwise unoccupied waiting to make your incursions. But there is one piece of news, at least, that cannot wait for your return, and that will, we hope, give you great cheer and no small amount of amusement to read._
> 
> _While we are all bereft for want of your companionship, there has been a new arrival who promises, if possible, more eccentricity than even you, dear Marquis, exhibit--almost more than one could expect to find in a single person. His name is Friedrich Wilhelm Rudolf Gerhard August, Freiherr von Steuben--so he rivals you in length of name, at least! (As for length of his other appendages, we wish not for the opportunity to discern….) But we are dismayed to report that in every other respect, he seems to outstrip you for color and caprice. (We suspect that his title may be somewhat less than authentic, but his mannerisms, Laurens assures, are genuinely Teutonic enough to give credence to his claims of service with the Great Frederick.) He has come to assist in training our wayward troops. These, if they cannot be given sufficient clothing, and they have not enough to eat, may at least be kept warm by the lashings of the Baron's criticisms. He offers much that we need, and we have great hope that by the time you return, you will find a much improved army--if they have not died of exposure or starvation first!_
> 
> _The circumstances of his engagement should strike a familiar chord with you, dear General. He came over with several of his companions, speaking next to no English, but more than passable French. Who do you suppose was assigned to assist him? None but your humble servants, of course! His gift for invective is unparalleled, and more than once we have both been rather hard pressed to supply the proper vocabulary to accurately impart the force of his words to the men. All too frequently we must content ourselves with explanations befitting the_ sense _of his idiom, if not his literal (and graphic) metaphor. Thus we are confident that acting as his translators will prove a wholly different, yet equally entertaining, education…._  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Hamilton and Laurens meet one more time before the end....
> 
> French Translations:  
> ridicule - ridiculous  
> Parce-que, la vie apporte des changements - because life brings change  
> aussi - also  
> Ça va prendre du temps - it'll take some time  
> Il faut être patient - you must be patient  
> c'est bien - it's all right  
> Allez - go (on)


	21. Epilogue: Comprehension

**Yorktown, 1781**

After the briefing ended, and the various unit commanders departed to communicate their orders to their sergeants, Laurens lingered. Hamilton saw, smiled and nodded, and quickly dispatched the remaining officers. He waved Laurens into his tent. A few minutes' awkward, polite conversation ensued, until Laurens could not stand it anymore.

"Ham. Can we-- So much has happened, it's difficult to know where to--"

"I still love you," Hamilton said, cutting off Laurens' rather embarrassed attempt to rehash all that had come between them since he'd left. "I've always loved you, and I always will."

"You--you got married," Laurens pointed out. "I thought--"

Hamilton laughed. "You _wanted_ me to marry. For the whole of two years, every moment we were together, every letter, you were still fretting about my future. I could tell."

It was true. At Valley Forge and Morristown, every time Hamilton boasted of a new conquest, Laurens was sure of two things. He knew that Hamilton did it partly to make him jealous, and that it worked, every time. And he knew that despite that, some part of him was _praying_ that this would be the girl to turn Hamilton's head for real, to bring him back to a path of normalcy. That never happened: the lady either refused his proposals or he tired of her long before making any. While outwardly he scolded Hamilton's fickle nature, inwardly, Laurens rejoiced every time Hamilton returned to their bed.

"I wanted you to be happy," he said dejectedly. He was insanely grateful they were alone, for the moment, and relatively protected from anyone who might overhear. 

"I already was," Hamilton told him with tenderness. "But then when those letters from _your_ wife arrived--well, I won't pretend I wasn't upset--"

"I meant to tell you--"

"But it made sense soon enough." He frowned. "Well. Some sort of sense."

The comment was an unspoken invitation to tell him all about Martha, but Laurens did not want to take the time just then. Instead, he turned the topic back onto Hamilton. "So did your news, I suppose. General Schuyler's daughter?"

Hamilton blushed. "Eliza's actually just about as perfect as I could hope for--far more than I deserve, for sure."

"Do you love her?"

"Yes," Hamilton said, voice growing thick. "Very much. Almost sickeningly, I'm afraid. And we're about to--that is, she's expecting a child."

"Oh." Laurens felt his heart stop for a moment. It seemed impossible to breathe, until Hamilton went on, moving toward him.

"But I meant what I said, John--what _you_ said. I keep a part of myself for you, and another for the world. There will always be room in my heart for you, as well as my Betsey. That is, if--if you are still--"

John launched forward to press into Alexander. "I've missed you so damn much," he confessed between kisses. 

"Come back after dark," Alexander said. "Stay with me tonight."

"Do you think I had any other plan?" John smiled. "What of Lafayette?"

In spite of Lafayette's blessing on them, or perhaps because of it, the three of them had grown stronger and closer than ever after his return to Valley Forge, in the spring of '78. All that summer, on campaign, the three had remained nearly inseparable friends. Their companionship often included inviting him to their bed, but just as often, occasion did not allow for a liaison. Lafayette was selective, accepting at times, declining at others. Hamilton had wondered whether he had found lovers among Von Steuben's subordinates who were less entangling, and Laurens mused that there had certainly been willing volunteers within that set. Then late in the year, Lafayette had asked leave to sail for France--spurred, in part, by news of his eldest daughter's death, and his wish to join his wife as soon as possible. By the time he returned, everything had changed for all of them. 

"He has his own military family now," said Alexander mildly. "And I want you to myself."

Neither of them had to say anything about the impending battle. They had duties to attend, plans to make, men to encourage. As the sun dropped, John found some food (not plentiful, but ample--so different from the ravages of Valley Forge!) and returned to Hamilton's tent.

Once safe inside, they made love as if they had never been apart. They still fitted together, John thought, though he approved of how Alexander finally seemed to be filling out. Command agreed with him. So did marriage, apparently, but he pushed that jealous thought away.

Afterward, they lay twined together on Hamilton's narrow cot. "I've something for you. Call it a good luck charm," John said. He untangled his limbs from Alexander's, hung over the edge of the bed, and dug in his rucksack. He pulled himself back into bed, holding a small, wrapped twist of paper. "I got this in Paris. I hoped I'd have the chance to give it to you, someday."

With a smile, Alexander took the small package and unfolded it. Inside was a cravat pin with a brilliant gemstone in its setting. "John," he breathed, "it's beautiful." John hoped he wouldn't ask how much it had cost; it was probably worth more than everything Alexander had ever owned. Though admittedly, John had no way to know how much money General Schuyler had given him when he married. Alexander must have made his own assessment of the gem, because he commented sheepishly: "I...should give you something to carry, tomorrow."

"I thought about that, too." He felt around on top of Alexander's trunk for the queue ribbons they had pulled off each other at some point. "Let's exchange. Like the favors that knights used to wear in tournament and on crusade. Only from each other, not fair ladies, of course. I'll wear yours tomorrow, and you mine."

"Yours is sky blue," Alexander pointed out with a wide smile. John could guess what he was thinking. He'd never seen Alexander in anything but a black queue ribbon, and he surmised that it was because Alexander didn't own any other color. Probably he was wondering if it would be immediately obvious to everyone around them. But to John's surprise, he didn't object. He said merely: "All right."

They kissed to seal the bargain. Alexander set the cravat pin and the blue queue ribbon back in the tray of his trunk. He blew out the candle at the same time, and they settled back down, tangled in each other's legs and arms.

"Do you remember the day we met?" Alexander asked.

"Of course."

"Do you remember asking if I believe in love at first sight?"

"Yes. You said: infatuation, but not love."

Would he have called his own reaction to Alexander infatuation? Most likely, he decided. It wasn't love--attraction, certainly, but not love. Alexander had been too guarded to foster anything like that.

"I did," Alexander confirmed. "And I was. Infatuated. With you, from the first day."

"Really? I wasn't even certain at first that you liked me--as a friend, I mean."

"Well. If you recall I hadn't admitted my nature, even to myself, at that point. But--there was certainly something about you that I responded to from the beginning."

"But you were so….brusque," John reminded him.

"I know." Hamilton had the audacity to smile and wag his eyebrows, as if proud of the fact.

"You're usually only so abrupt with people you find worthless. I've seen your sharp tongue cut a man to ribbons, Ham."

Hamilton rocked Laurens side to side as if coddling a babe. "Why, Laurens. Did I hurt your feelings? I'm sorry, if I did."

"No, never. I assumed you thought I would be a nuisance, and I was determined not to prove one. But--you were, let's say, extremely candid." 

"In your case, I was guarding myself against disappointment. After all, all we knew at the time was that your father had arranged your commission…."

~

>   
>  _"Hey, Ham, give it up for now." Tilghman called as he appeared in the doorway of the tiny cabin. "God, it's hotter than a forge in here. How do you stand it?"_
> 
> _Hamilton shrugged. "It's not so bad."_
> 
> _"If you were born in an oven," Tilghman quipped._
> 
> _"I'd rather have the shutters open but then the pages go everywhere." As if to demonstrate, a stray current of air flipped one of the letters off its stack. "Damn."_
> 
> _"Well, let it be. The new aide's arriving--pickets have just let him through, along with the wagons of powder we've been waiting for. Shift off that damned seat and come greet the man."_
> 
> _"One second," Hamilton muttered. He had been in the middle of a sentence. With the thought completed, he sanded the page and set it aside to dry. He stood, stretching, and followed Tilghman into the blinding sunlight. It was much cooler outside, true, but with the sun beating down on them, the difference owed more to a breeze over the hillside than to the closeness indoors._
> 
> _"He's not a new aide," Hamilton grumbled as they walked toward the edges of the army camp._
> 
> _"Hm?"_
> 
> _"There has been no decision yet," he explained. "I know Congress thinks it can promote and assign whomever they like, wherever they like, but--"_
> 
> _"Let's meet the fellow before passing judgment," Tilghman teased._
> 
> _"More to the point, let's see what happens when_ His Excellency _meets him."_
> 
> _"Just because his father's in Congress that doesn't make him useless, Ham. Don't get ahead of yourself."_
> 
> _"I never said it did. I sincerely hope we're not saddled with an albatross. But you called him the new aide, and he's not appointed yet, so who's getting ahead of himself?"_
> 
> _Tilghman chuckled. "All right, fair enough."_
> 
> _They walked through neat rows of tents to the paddock where the horses were allowed to graze. There a young man had dismounted and was handing the reins to one of the grooms. His hair was powdered and the queue that hung down under his hat had a great deal of curl to it. The uniform looked a little foppish, as if it had been tailored more for evening parties and dancing than for long days in the saddle. Everything about the figure they observed seemed to confirm Hamilton's fear that this was a man who hoped being an aide was a safe, boring way to sit out the war in relative obscurity without sacrificing honor._
> 
> _But then Laurens turned to greet them, and everything changed. His face was open, honest and eager, and he carried himself with an easy grace, only slightly maligned by a few nerves that showed through. In spite of his misgivings, Hamilton wanted to like him. He hoped the fellow turned out as excellent as he seemed on the surface._
> 
> _After introductions, Laurens asked for a rundown of their routine, which made both Tilghman and Hamilton laugh. "The routine is there is no routine," Tench explained, "but we do have some attempt at keeping a schedule."_
> 
> _"Yes, but it's usually blown to pieces before breakfast," Hamilton quipped. "Which is better than the days it's deranged before sunrise."_
> 
> _Laurens regarded them both with cool assessment. "Look, I--ordinarily I wouldn't say this, straight off, but--you're probably thinking that my f--that Mr. Laurens arranged this appointment to keep his son from fighting." He shrugged. "You'd be right. But I've no desire to sit back and let others bear the burden. I've missed too much of the war as it is. I'm no albatross, and I pray I'm no millstone. I intend to join the fray with all my might. And I don't plan to give up until it's done."_
> 
> _Hamilton admired the man's fire. He was particularly impressed that Laurens had used the same derogatory term for shirkers as Hamilton himself had done just moments ago. Yes, he liked him, but he still thought the other in need of some enlightenment. "There's no shortage of work," he clarified, "but fighting is only incidental to our brief."_
> 
> _"I know what an aide does," Laurens countered, without rancor, but attempting to offer his own defense. "I'm not afraid of riding as a courier into battles, or disappointed by the idea of long hours writing correspondence. What I mean is, I don't expect an easy billet or any sort of special treatment--no matter what my father might have requested on my behalf."_
> 
> _"What you mean is you'd rather fight but you're willing to do whatever needs to be done," Tilghman supplied helpfully._
> 
> _"Yes. I--yes." He twisted one corner of his mouth into a lopsided smile. "I've been asking for a commission, trying to come home for over a year, in order to serve. I'm here to_ work _, same as anyone."_
> 
> _"Good, because Ham's right: there's more than enough work," Tench said quickly, "with the campaign season in full swing."_
> 
> _Laurens grabbed his saddlebag and a small bedroll and followed them back toward the General's commandeered headquarters._
> 
> _"How much does His Excellency delegate to us, then?" Laurens asked, as they walked._
> 
> _"That really depends on what needs to be done--and how much His Excellency trusts you. Harrison's our senior aide," Tilghman explained, "And Capt. Gibbs and I have been with the General since before Trenton. We tend to go with him if he's leaving camp. Gibbs is a better rider, so he's frequently used as a courier. There's also Meade for the riding--though he's from camp at present--and a few others you'll meet later. Ham's the newest addition to the family," he continued, clasping Alexander on both shoulders and giving them a friendly shake, "but not the least."_
> 
> _"Oh, leave it be." Hamilton batted Tench's hands away, eyes rolling, but Tench replied by throwing his arms around him in a wrestling bear hug._
> 
> _"You're his favorite, Hammie, admit it," Tench teased._
> 
> _"A singular honor," Hamilton said to him with no little sarcasm, and then turned his attention to elbowing Tench in the ribs to get him to let go._
> 
> _"Sh, you'll scare the new lad," Tench retorted. Laurens was, indeed, looking a little nervous._
> 
> _"If anyone's scaring him, it's you with your horseplay. Don't be an ass." Hamilton smiled at Laurens. "Tilghman's enough to put anyone off, though; don't let him bother you."_
> 
> _"No, it's just… We have great respect for General Washington in South Carolina," said Laurens with diplomacy._
> 
> _"And we have great respect for His Excellency here, too," Hamilton assured him, "but respecting the Great Man and working directly for him are not always easy things to balance."_
> 
> _Laurens' eyes widened. "You're certainly--candid," he said wryly._
> 
> _"You might as well know it straightaway," said Hamilton with a shrug. "That's not to say that His Excellency isn't the best man for the job--perhaps the only man we have for it--but if you're serious about succeeding, best prepare yourself for a soldier who is not sparing in his criticism."_
> 
> _At this, Laurens barked with laughter. "Well, I'll feel right at home, then," he remarked. Then he sobered himself and explained: "You've never had criticism until you've been corrected by the Genovese."_
> 
> _While it still remained to be seen whether Laurens could perform as competently as he pronounced himself willing, Hamilton already appreciated the man's sense of humor. He reminded himself to be careful, and not to get too familiar with him too swiftly. Still, he found himself hoping more fervently that they might become friends…._

~

For Laurens' part, meeting Hamilton, Tilghman, and later that day, Lafayette and the others, quickly made him feel the journey from London had been well worth it. "I was never happier than when we were all together, back in '77 and '78," he murmured against Alexander's cheek.

"No? Not in Paris _avec Madame Laurens_?" Alexander teased.

John shook his head. "Our letters kept crossing. I never managed to see her. Or little Frances," he admitted. "But, that's probably just as well. I'm not--cut out to be a husband or a father. Ham. I always meant to explain to you. About Martha. It--it happened when I was twenty-one…." He poured out the whole tale to Alexander, who listened without interruption or judgment. It was the first time he had ever told anyone the whole truth about his circumstances with Martha--he had not even confessed it to Lafayette, while Alexander had been apart from them--and it felt like lifting a burden to be able to share his secret. 

"So you didn't bring them home with you?" Alexander asked. His voice sounded a little tight.

"No, I--Martha tried to come to France while I was there but the timing never worked. When the war's over, God willing, it'll be safe for them to sail."

Hamilton took a deep breath and let it out through his nose. Laurens could tell from the sound that he was displeased. 

"You should have told me all this four years ago, Jack," he said softly.

"I wish I had," John agreed. "The more you told me about your own past, the harder it became to find the right way to broach the subject. I feared you would hate me."

He felt Alexander shake his head. "I can't hate you, but--promise me that you won't abandon them, my dear."

"No. I mean, I sometimes think they'd be better off without me--"

"They aren't," Alexander broke in darkly. "Believe me, they aren't."

During the weeks in Valley Forge, and over the summer they spent on campaign, Hamilton had gradually told Laurens more and more about his background, his parents, his life up until their meeting, and many other details that, Laurens was certain, he had shared with very few others before. So Laurens knew, without having to be reminded, why Hamilton would take such a strong position on the subject of a man's duty to his family. He rubbed the other's arm reassuringly. "Whether they are or not. If I'd intended to shirk my responsibility, I could have refused to marry her in the first place."

"No, you couldn't have," Alexander countered.

John sighed. "No. I couldn't have." He lifted himself onto his elbow, touching Alexander's chest. "Should we sleep? I've no idea how soon we have to move." He did not say what they were both thinking--that this was perhaps the last opportunity they might ever have to be together, regardless of the outcome of the battle.

"It's true, we're running out of time," Alexander admitted sadly, and he, too, did not mean only the impending dawn. He brushed John's jaw with one palm, slid his hand behind John's ear to cup his head gently, and said, "But we don't need to sleep yet."

~

The battle lasted six days. The men dozed in shifts, leaning against the sandy redoubts and starting at every noise. The daytime brought gunfire and bayonets and blood. The stink of dead men grew unbearable, then became something they barely noticed, except when the wind shifted. By the end, everyone was beyond exhausted. That final morning, Hamilton had stirred early, and was trying to motivate his men into one more day of barraging the British lines, when they spied a drummer and a young officer waving a white handkerchief tied to his bayonet.

"Is that--?" Laurens asked.

"I think so," Hamilton said. Then, down the line, he heard one of the French officers tell his men to hold steady. As they watched, two of Rochambeau's men came forward. They took the Redcoat's musket, blindfolded him, and led him down the hill. Seeing this, the drummer went running back in the direction of Cornwallis' army.

"My God," Laurens said. They both pushed to their feet. With a hurried instruction to his men to remain alert, but to hold fire, Hamilton followed Laurens over to the Frenchmen and their prisoner.

"I've been sent to discuss terms of surrender," the British officer was saying, when they drew close enough to hear.

"Whose surrender?" Hamilton asked gruffly.

"His Excellency, General Cornwallis, and His Majesty's army," the man replied.

The Continentals grinned at one another. Hamilton gave the French hurried instruction to treat the man fairly and bring him to Washington as quickly as possible. They went on their way.

"I don't believe it," Hamilton said in awe. "We've won."

"We've won," Laurens echoed. Then he let out an excited _Whoop!_ and tossed his hat in the air. "We've won, Alex!"

"We fucking _won_ ," Hamilton agreed. Soon they were clasping each other's forearms and repeating it to each other, over and over: "We won, we won, we won, we _WON_!"

The shout had gone up all around them, as well. Men on all sides were embracing, exchanging claps on the shoulders, jumping, enjoying their triumph in every way possible.

Almost every way. In the tumult of jubilation, Hamilton and Laurens found themselves face to face and growing still, calm and focused.

"We should report to headquarters and offer assistance," Laurens said first.

"Yes. And then after…." Hamilton's lips curled into a mischievous grin. "After that, let's go find Lafayette…."

"The Gay Trio, together again?" Laurens beamed back. 

"One last time," Hamilton confirmed. "Whatever else has happened or is going to happen, I think we've all earned the right to celebrate."

~Fin~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! That's it, folks! Over 100,000 words and wow, a lot more backstory than I'd planned, but y'know, I'm kinda happy with it. I hope y'all are, too. I even managed to work in the specific flashback requests!
> 
> (And for those who worried: See? I PROMISED that I would end it on a happy note, so they can be a Gay Trio forever and ever and nothing bad will ever happen to any of them, nope, not at all. Rocks do NOT fall, no one dies, and all is sunshine and rainbows. That's my story and I'm sticking to it....)
> 
> You'll note that I left plenty of gap here, and may at some future point fill in additional stories about Lams at Valley Forge, Von Steuben, the Trio in '78, and yeah, probably some smexy missing letters. Eventually. For now, though, I am probably taking a break from Hamilton for a little while. I really wanted to get this done and dusted before other aspects of my life take over, and I'm about a week behind that - but that is all right because the next couple of weeks are still a bit slow on that project. So, please, don't interpret a hiatus from me to mean that I've left the fandom! I think I still have even more to say about these boys, and their WashingDad, and other stories...but I just anticipate not having the time or bandwidth for it for, oh, about six months. I dunno - maybe inspiration will strike and I'll have the time to scribble something down, but it likely will not be another 102K+ epic-length angsty pornfest.
> 
> Meanwhile, comments and kudos are gold to me, and I appreciate and value every single accolade that it pleases people to leave. Please feel free to pimp this fic if you are so moved, and show it love if you think it deserves any.


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